PATTY CAKE

Chapter One

When he heard the girls singing, principal Peter McDonnell swiveled his desk chair and looked out his window. As he did, he felt the tell-tale feeling of his dark curly hair flicking the tops of his ears and brushing his eyebrows. Many of the women in the school teased the thirty-two year old Peter about his thick, dark curls saying the old classic, “Those curls and blue eyes; hey’re wasted on a man.” He knew they were engaging in playful flirting and only smiled when they said it. But, at the moment the feeling of those curls only made Peter think, It’s time for a haircut.

He loved that his office desk was backed a the window that looked out at the playground and recess field. He could swivel from his work for a few minutes, turn, and look out at his kids. Peter was devoted to the students in his school. He knew all their names and had an open-door policy if students needed to speak to him.

Donna Harris with her thick braids tied with green ribbons and Sybil Levine, with her shoulder length, straight blond hair, were only a yard from his window. The fourth graders were playing Patty Cake.

I haven’t seen kids play that in a long time, Peter thought. He smiled and watched the girls’ hands flying as he heard them sing:

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, baker’s man,

Bake me a cake as fast as you can;

Pat it, prick it, and mark it with a B,

Put it in the oven for baby and me.”

It seemed to Peter that there were newer hand games that involved complicated hand jive, but the time-proven “Patty Cake,” had apparently enjoyed a revival. He smiled and remembered that as a boy, he had only ever played that hand game with his cousin Annie. \

Annie taught Peter the verse that Donna and Sybil had sung, and they had played it over and over. Peter recalled how Annie’s pigtails flew about as they did the hand clapping and sang about the Baker’s man.

Donna and Sybil had started singing again as their hands flew along with Donna’s braids. Then they began a new verse that Peter had never heard before.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, witch’s pin,

Find a pretty neck and press it in,

Turn it, and twist it, until you see the red,

In less than a minute she will fall…down…dead!”

They immediately sang it again, but this time, the words were just slightly different:

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Witch’s pin,

Find a handsome neck and press it in,

Turn it, and twist it, until you see the red,

In less than a minute he will fall…down…dead!”

Peter McDonnell was out of his chair and heading toward the door of his office. Didn’t any of the teachers hear that? That’s not appropriate, and where did they get that from? Mary, Peter’s secretary, looked up from her typing as he zipped by to speak to the girls. Oops, Mary thought, someone’s in trouble.

The elementary school Peter administered was on a four-acre campus. There was enough space for each class to have a garden plot that they tended one period each week. There was also a grove of trees with a clearing in the center. It was big enough for a single class to gather in there during Reading or for Story Time. There was a sign-up sheet in Peter’s office so teachers could reserve the area. They’d even had a contest to name it and the name “The Enchanted Book Forest,” had won the majority of votes. A small group of boys were very disappointed that the name “Freddy’s Forest,” hadn’t been chosen.

Donna and Sybil were talking to their teacher, Helen Shaeffer, when Peter came toward them, and the three were giggling about something.

“Hi,” Peter said, and the girl chorused, “Hi, Mr. McDonnell.”

“Donna, Sybil, do you mind if I speak to Ms. Shaeffer for a few minutes?” The girls shook their heads and ran down toward the playground area.

The girls in the fourth grade had decided that Mr. McDonnell and Ms. Shaeffer were a romantic couple. Peter and Helen knew this and were careful not to do anything to add to the myth. In reality, Helen was dating one of the P.E. teachers outside of school. Peter was also seeing someone, but he had remained strictly private about his romantic life.

“Helen, I heard that new verse the girls were singing. When did that start?”

Helen looked puzzled. “New verse?”

“The one about the witch’s pin?” Peter said.

Helen looked confused. “I didn’t hear anything like that. I was right beside them the whole time, and I just heard the Baker Man’s verse.”

“I was sitting at my desk,” Peter said. “You know my office. The window is right behind my seat, and I heard the girl’s sing a second verse that I never heard before. It had something about jabbing a witch’s pin into someone’s neck and then they fall down dead.”

Helen recoiled, “Oh, God, that’s pleasant! Are you sure?”

“I heard every word. Do you mind if I talk to Donna and Sybil?”

“Of course not, go ahead if you’re sure, but I can’t understand how I didn’t hear it.”

“I don’t want to scare them,” Peter reassured Helen. “I just want to discuss where they heard it, and that we don’t sing about people hurting other people.”

“Of course,” Helen said, but then she bit her lower lip and repeated, “Be careful, Peter. I can’t understand how I didn’t hear them say anything about pins or people falling dead. I wonder if you didn’t hear it coming from somewhere else.”

Peter suddenly felt slightly awkward and confused. If Helen said she was standing there, then that’s where she was. Still, there couldn’t be a mistake. He’d heard it plainly.

“I’ll be careful,” he reassured her.

Donna and Sybil were still sitting on the railroad ties that bordered the sandbox. It was there for the Pre-Kindergarten and Kindergarten, but a surprising number of grades enjoyed it. They were whispering but stopped when Peter sat down next to them.

“I hardly got to say hello to you two. How are you?”

“We’re good, Donna said for both of them. She was a pretty Black girl with large eyes and a sweet smile. Her parents originally came from the Haiti and Peter loved the slight touch of creole in Donna’s English. Sybil smiled and said, “Yeah, we’re good. How are you, Mr. McDonnell?”

“I’m good, so we’re all good,” he grinned, “but I’m curious about something. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

The girls didn’t mind and got serious. After all, the principal wanted to ask them something.

“I was in my office and enjoying hearing you play ‘Patty Cake.’ And I was very interested in the second verse you sang after the Baker’s man verse. I never heard that before. Where did you get learn that?”

“My mother knew the Baker man verse,” Sybil said.

“Oh,” Peter said smiling, “she probably played Patty Cake too.”

Sybil nodded.

“But I’m talking about the verse you sang after the Baker’s Man?”

The girls’ looked at each other with furrowed brows.

“I don’t know a second verse, Mr. McDonnell,” Donna said.

“Me either,” said Sybil.

“The one about the witch’s pin?” Peter asked. He forced a smile as he said it.

The two girls looked surprised.

“How does that go?” Sybil asked. Now she looked more interested than confused.

“I don’t remember all the words,” Peter said, “but it left a strong impression.” He thought quickly about whether he should repeat the violent part, especially as the girls were saying they didn’t know it. He tried a different tact. “Do either of you know if there’s a second verse to ‘Patty Cake?”

“I never heard one, but I bet we could write one,” Donna said. She looked at Sybil. “Let’s write a second verse.”

“Yeah!” Sybil sounded excited. “After we write it, we’ll make you a copy, Mr. McDonnell. Do you want us to put a witch’s pin in it?”

Peter smiled and forced a little laugh, “Naw, I don’t think we need a nasty witch’s pin.” He laughed and the girls laughted.” Just write it the way you want, and I’d love to see it when it’s done.”

Peter got up feeling very insecure. He knew what he had heard, and yet the girls seemed genuinely nonplussed. He decided, If the girls did sing the verse about the Witch it will either never appear again, or if it does, and someone else hears it, then I can discuss it with them. In any case, I’ve done my job for now.

“I’ll be eager to see what you creative geniuses come up with,” he said to the girls as he got up off the railway tie. Peter walked back to Helen Shaeffer. She had a whistle in her hand and was about to use it to signal the end of recess. “What did they say?” she asked.

Peter shrugged, “They didn’t seem to know any second verse.” He smiled, “but they decided to write one and show it to me when it’s done. It’ll be interesting to see what they write.”

As Peter stepped aside, in preparation for returning to his office, Helen nodded and blew the whistle. The kids who hadn’t seen him before waved, and many called out, “Hi, Mr. McDonnell.”

Peter shouted, “Hey, kids! Enjoyed recess?”

A boisterous shout of “Yeah!”

“GREAT!” he shouted back and waved as he went into the building, only turning back to see the children line up before Helen and the other two fourth grade teachers.

As he walked into the office, Mary Carlisle looked up from whatever she was typing, probably one of the drafts of a report he had done on safety procedures at the elementary school. “Are you okay, Peter?” she asked. She looked genuinely concerned.

Peter and his secretary were a mutual admiration society. She was an incredible worker handling anxious parent calls with such skill that by the time he took the call the parent was usually in a much better place. The faculty loved Mary and treated her like a combination friend, sister, mother, and confessor.

“I’m okay,” he said, and he shared the story of the now mysterious second verse of Patty Cake.

“Trust those amazing instincts of yours,” Mary said. “If you heard it; you heard it! Those are very sweet girls, but even darling little ones love scary and even violent songs. After all, it’s not like it isn’t on the news every second.”

Peter nodded. “Thanks,” he said. He told Mary about the girls volunteering to write a second verse.”

“Brilliant,” Mary said. “That will either put an end to it or give you something you can talk about with them.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” he said. “I just don’t understand how Helen Shaeffer didn’t hear it too.”

Mary shrugged. “It’s so noisy at recess, she might have been distracted at the time.”

“Very possible,” he was heading back to his office, when Mary stopped him, “Sorry, Peter, but you have that observation in Jim Kellen’s class now. How’s he doing? Any better?”

Jim was a sixth-grade teacher, who under-planned his classes and was terrible at returning homework and tests in a timely way. They had rules about that, and Jim was always coming up with excuses. Parents who had liked him on parents night were increasingly unenthusiastic.

“He’s puts on all the face expressions of someone who is working hard and doing the right thing,” Peter whispered.

“That’s too bad. Well, good luck.”

Peter waved one hand and rushed into his office to grab his laptop, then headed to the sixth-grade floor. The building had two floors with wings on each. The first floor had the Pre-K, K and grade 1, 2 and 3 and the library. The second floor had grades 4, 6 and 6 and the music and art class rooms. The gym and P.E. classes were held in a separate building.

The minute Peter entered Kellen’s classroom, his stomach tightened into a knot. Jim was busy on his laptop and the kids were reading their copies of The Devil’s Arithmetic by Jane Yolen. It was a holocaust novel that the kids read when they got to that part of the history curriculum. However, because of the often intense content, it was a book that the teachers read with the class. This had been a grade level agreement. Peter sighed, not only wasn’t Kellen following protocol for the book, but it was way too early in the year for Kellen to have gotten up to World War II and the holocaust.

He knocked at the door, even though it was opened, and Jim looked up, shut his laptop too quickly, and came over to greet Peter. Peter took a deep breath. He was feeling decidedly confrontational but couldn’t show it with the kids in the room. Most of them had stopped reading and were looking up and smiling at him. He turned from Jim for a moment and smiled back at the kids. Some went back to their books, but about half kept looking at what was going on.

“Hi, we talked about this visit,” Peter began. “I was coming to see you teach a lesson.”

“Yes,” Jim said, grinning in a way that raised Peter’s blood pressure. Jim was one of those people who wrote poison pen letters. He had written several about Peter harrassing him and sent them to the teachers’ union representatives. Peter met with Judy and Cliff and was careful not to disclose any information about Jim except that he was working with him which included observations. Judy and Cliff were good people, but they played their role and asked how many observations. Peter had calmly answered, “As many as I think are needed.” And added, “My goal is to support Jim. If he’s a success we’re all successful.” Although there was some more uncomfortable conversation after that, the ‘success statement’ seemed to satisfy them.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” Jim said, pointing to a vacant chair in the back, “and I’ll get on with the lesson.”

Peter sat down, and Jim told the class to close their books. He went to the blackboard and wrote: The Devil’s Arithmetic on the board. Then he said, “So, let’s share what you’ve read and what you think about it.”

The entire rest of the period was the kids eagerly talking about what they read. There seemed to be a lot of enthusiasm for the book, which Peter thought was fine, but Jim let it go on for the rest of the period. Jim physically preened as if he’d taught an amazing class. When the bell rang, he praised the kids for their ‘excellent reading skills,’ and sent them on to music. He hadn’t focused on any of the significant themes or written anything on the board.

As the children left, saying, “Bye, Mr. McDonnell,” Peter continued to sit. Jim looked a little damp as he came over to Peter.

“Aren’t they terrific?” Jim said. “They get so much from their reading.”

“They were very good, Jim, but there were also many comments that showed a lack of understanding. It’s hard to wrap your head around the things the Nazis did to children in the concentration camps. Many of them didn’t understand the shower scene and how they could put naked children in a shower and gas them, and you said nothing.”

Jim’s face changed. Now he looked both damp and angry. “They were sharing the book from their perspective. I didn’t think it was fair, at this juncture, to step in and tell them If they didn’t get the nuance of a particular scene.”

“I think it’s fine to let the kids express their opinions about the book, but I think you needed, for openers, to have a pre-reading discussion to guide their thinking. Then, as we all agreed, the teacher is supposed to read with the students. This is a very heavy book; they need adult support with many parts of it, especially what they read today.” Peter took a very big breath. “What was so important on the computer?”

“What?!” Jim wasn’t trying to hide his anger.

“Class time is not time for you to work on the computer…whatever you were doing.”

“What do you mean whatever I was doing? That sounds an awful lot like an accusation, Peter?”

Peter took a deep breath to calm himself before answering. “I want you to be successful, Jim. I truly do, but it’s not going to work if you decide that anything I question you about is and accusation or harassment. I’m going to write up what I saw, and I’m going to come back tomorrow. I expect to see a teacher leading his class in a valuable lesson, and I want a copy of your lesson plan which I asked you for this lesson and didn’t get.”

Peter got up and headed for the door, but Jim hurried in front of him. “Are you giving me an ultamatum?”

Peter was now so angry that he had to stop, stand still and wait before he answered, “Do you have difficulty understanding my words? I said I expect to see you lead the class in a valuable lesson. That’s what I expect of every teacher in this school including myself. Excuse me.”

Peter had to actually brush against Jim to get to the door and leave. He could feel Jim watching him and then hurrying to his desk. No doubt to write a memo to Judy and Cliff. Just for an instant, Jim thought, I wish a Witch would come along and give Jim the old pin treatment.

Chapter Two

Peter’s work generally kept him at his desk for several hours after dismissal. Then he would leave Bronxville and begin his long drive home to Manhattan. Sometimes, he had parent meetings after school, but today it was just the usual shocking number of emails and then his class’ homework papers to go through. I’ll do the papers at home. Thank God it’s Friday.

One of Peter’s emails was from a parent named Cory Brownstein. Cory had two terrific children in the school, a boy in the third grade and a girl in the kindergarten. They were happy, well-adjusted students, so Peter wondered what the email could be about. Anything can happen? He thought and opened the email. It took only one look to freeze Peter in his chair. There was no greeting or closing, just this:

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, a bum on the street,

Smile and give him food with strychnine to eat.

Watch the convulsions as his spine contracts,

Lovely death gyrations as the poison impacts.”

Peter pushed back from his computer and got up from his chair. ”What the hell is going on?” he said aloud.

He stood staring at the screen and then opened his mouth. What he was looking at almost caused him to cry out, but part of his brain, the part that wasn’t in shock, worried that someone from housekeeping would hear him and rush into the office. What he was seeing, were the words of the new “Patty Cake” verse lose their integrity and begin to stream down the digital pages as if they were freshly inked and then caught in the rain. Peter’s mouth closed, but his face contracted into a grimace, as he watched the words continue to slide until they were gone and the email with them. Peter was left staring at his unread emails.

He said down at the computer and scrolled up and down. There was no email from Cory Brownstein. He went into his spam and trash and typed the name in, but nothing came up. Peter decided to call Mike Phelan, the elementary school’s tech manager. Mike would know how to find the email. Whatever trick had caused it to disappear, if it had been in the system, it would have left a trace.

Peter dialed Mike’s exchange and got his answering machine. Not everyone stays after 6:00 p.m. Peter thought. He was about to leave a message but hung up instead. At first, he wasn’t sure why he’d done that, but then he thought about the content of the email. It bothered him. If Mike could find it, what would be made of it? Why would he personally receive something like that? What if it came out that he had heard Sybil and Donna earlier, but their teacher - who was standing nearby - hadn't heard a thing? He shifted in his seat. It doesn’t matter. The fucking thing disappeared anyway. I just need to go home.

He hung up the phone and shut off his computer. When he got home he would call Daryl and see if he was free. He wanted a drink, but he didn’t want to drink alone.

Daryl Cooper was a lawyer who made more than twice as much money as Peter did, even with his administrator’s salary. Peter lived in an apartment in a large co-op complex where everyone was fairly anonymous. Daryl lived in a two-story brownstone that he owned on 79th Street. ‘Both floors!’ Peter often said when the two were together. “I don’t even own my lousy apartment.” Daryl always took Peter in his arms when he said this and kissed him. “If you’d move in with me, you couldå own two floors. We could make it legal.” Peter felt like he didn’t need any åhome except Daryl’s arms. He’d only ever dated one other man before he met Daryl at a cluåb, and their mutual attraction was electric. They left the club, went to Daryl’s house, and made the kind of love that was both passionate and loving. After seeing each other every weekend for a month, Daryl started talking about marriage, and Peter, in Daryl’s arms, told him his fears.

There were a number of gay teachers in his school who were out and either dating or married to their partner. Parents seldom had anything to say about it unless they were particularly conservative parents. But what would the entire parent body feel if they knew that the principal, the man who guided and led the children, was a gay man? What would the headmaster feel about it? He was at least forty and still a bachelor. Maybe he had a secret life? It was certainly whispered about enough.

Daryl had gotten very serious and said, “If anyone at the top says the wrong thing or makes a move to make you uncomfortable or edge you out, I’ll make a legal case that will threaten to publically blacklist the school as a hotbed of bigotry and intolerance.”

“That will make me want to stay,” Peter had laughed. “These things are really complicated.” He told Daryl about a conservative parent who had made an appointment to complain about a book the children were reading in the fifth grade.

“I know every book taught on every grade level,” Peter said. “Most of them are books that I recommended myself.”

“No one knows children’s books like you,” Daryl put in.

Peter smiled. “One book in the fifth grade, Ivy Aberdeen’s Letter to the World, is a terrific book that gives children a look into the feelings of invisibility experienced by a middle child who also realizes that she has no interest in boys and has a crush on another girl. Ivy is like all children concerned with their identity and the book was taught in that way, dealing with the universality of the themes. The fifth graders might giggle at certain points, but they always wound up loving the book and associated with a lot of Ivy’s worries about acceptance.”

“The parent came to tell me what the bible said about men laying together and that included the same for women. They also claimed that the book was teaching the children to be gay. It wasn’t an easy conversation, but I very respectfully told the parent that the bible teaches people to love their neighbor and that the school wasn’t teaching anyone to lie down with anyone else. We were teaching the children to respect all people. I added the bit about casting stones. It turned out that the parent hadn’t even read the book, she’d heard about the story from her daughter who, the parent reluctantly admitted, was enthusiastic about the book. I gave her a copy of the book and suggested she read it. She took it and said that she would. It sounded threatening when she said it, But, that was over a month ago, and the mother called me to say that the book was actually very interesting, as long as the school was really just teaching respect and not encouraging “deviant” behaviors. I assured her once again that we were engaged in teaching respect for differences and the phone call ended more cordially than I would have expected.”

“Deviant behaviors,” Daryl had said and shook his head. He kissed Peter again and held him. “Do you think there’s anything deviant about how we feel toward each other?” Peter took too many beats to answer. “That’s the problem here,” Daryl said, “I think you do believe that.”

“I don’t,” Peter said, “not really. It’s just this fear.”

When he lay next to Daryl, Peter felt like that was where he belonged, but he also felt guilty for feeling that way. He had grown up in a Catholic home. When he was a boy, he'd gone to church every Sunday and had even been a choir boy for a short time. He desperately wanted to be in God’s grace. His siblings, an older brother and younger sister, were both straight, and Peter had never come out to them. His brother was four years older and had been very kind to him and protective when Peter was small. If he thought anything about Peter, he’d never said it. But his sister, Claire, was always letting him know that she was available. “If you ever want to talk about anything, privately, I’m here for you.”

John and Claire were both married now. John had a daughter and a son. Claire was pregnant, and as far as they knew Peter lived a celibate life.

Peter put on his lightweight coat, heaved his backpack over his shoulders, and left his office. José in housekeeping was just about to enter. “Hello, Peter. How was your day?”

“Interesting,” Peter said, pausing,“How is yours going, José?”

“Not bad, Look.” He pulled out his cell phone and quickly opened photos to show his son Julian in graduation clothes. “They gave them robes already. This spring he graduates and goes to college to study to be an architect.”

“That’s fantastic. You and Mrs. Perez must be so proud…and excited.”

José nodded and put his phone in his back pocket.”Yeah, we are. But you go home now. You with your very long days…and have a good evening.”

“Thank you.” The two men shook hands and Peter left the building. He started walking down the campus and paused as he passed The Enchanted Book Forest. He smiled and chuckled, Forest? The small grove of trees was hardly a forest, but it was big enough to cozily hug a class with books in their eager hands.

It had gotten dark, and the little grove was lit by the moon. It’s later than I thought. Peter glanced at his watch. It was 7:30. Good grief. I’ve got to leave earlier. I bet the headmaster is home with a martini. And maybe someone is with him. And maybe it’s not a woman.

Peter took another look at the grove of trees. The moonlight didn’t make it look enchanted. It looks more like The Haunted Grove, Peter thought, and as he thought this he suddenly remembered the words on the dissolved email:

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, a bum on the street,

Smile and give him food with strychnine to eat.

Watch the convulsions as his spine contracts,

Lovely death gyrations as the poison impacts.”

He looked back at the grove of trees and the shadows that the moonlight created within the inner space. They seemed to shift as Peter looked, and there was one dark spot in the center. Peter squinted. The dark, shadow was long and tall like a figure standing amidst the trees.

Idiot, he said to himself, and walked quickly away and toward the parking lot where his car waited for him. Just keep standing next to those trees for a few more moments, he thought as he got out his car keys, hit the button to unlock the car, and threw his backpack in the back, and you’ll see Count Dracula or the Wolfman lurking there. He chuckled thinking of a horror movie he and Daryl had watched recently, "Or, “The Nun!”

He got into the driver's seat and looked in his

rearview mirror. Peter suddenly had the nervous feeling that there might be someone in the back seat. There wasn’t

Peter swore, started the car, and drove off the campus. He would definitely call Daryl about that drink.

Chapter Three

Peter and Daryl were sitting in a bar in Daryl’s neighborhood. It wasn’t a gay bar, but it did attract a large number of men. It made Peter feel secure that he was highly unlikely to meet any families from his school there. The two were in many ways a study in contrasts. Peter was very slender and a little below average height at five foot seven inches. He tended to be pale which contrasted with his black curls hair. Peter had a lot of energy and tended to overwork as a result. Daryl was six foot three, blond, and hit the gym every day before going to the law firm he was co-president of. He was also a hard worker, but deployed his energies with careful planning. The two men both loved books, music, sports and valued integrity. They complemented each other like matched puzzle pieces.

Daryl had found them a comfortable round table where the seats were padded and attached to a padded, rounded backrest. Peter wriggled into his seat and sipped his gin and tonic. “This is so comfortable. I’m actually relaxing.”

“Come upstairs and I’ll really help you relax.” Under the table, Daryl laid his hand on Peter’s thigh. Peter felt himself responding in a way that would make standing up impossible.

“I’d love to come upstairs, but I didn’t bring anything with me.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday, dopey, what do you need? Besides, I laundered the stuff you brought last time.”

Surreptitiously, Peter scanned the room and then kissed Daryl.

“Nice,” Daryl said, using one hand to hold Peter’s face where it was, “nice to see you worrying less about what anyone else sees or thinks.”

“Thanks, but if you don’t take your hand off of my thigh, I won’t be able to stand up when we leave.”

Daryl laughed. “Worry, worry, worry,” he scolded.

“Says the lawyer with an impecable reputation,” Peter countered.

“Yeah, but everybody where I work knows that I’m gay.” He said pointedly.

“I’ll still need a minute before I can stand up.”

Daryl removed his hand, but not before it did something else that made Peter gasp.

They left the bar, but once outside, Daryl took hold of Peter and kissed him, open mouth, for what seemed an endless time.

When Daryl finally broke the kiss, Peter swallowed hard and scanned the street for any observers.

“You are very bad. I’m going to have to punish you when we get upstairs,” Daryl grinned.

“Not before I tell you what happened at school today,” Peter said, “I just wanted to relax with our drinks, but I’d like your thoughts about it.”

Daryl looked at Peter in a way that Peter felt sure was the way Daryl looked at someone in a court room. “Sounds serious.”

***

Stepping into Daryl’s brownstone always gave Peter the feeling that he was stepping into another world. Once the sturdy wooden door closed, his inhibitions dropped away and he experienced an almost euphoric sense of peace, anticipation and excitement. But first, he wanted to share the Patty Cake story.

“Let’s go into the living room. I’m going to give you a nice snifter of brandy. Not too much, because I don’t want you drunk for what will come after your story.”

Peter grinned largely, “Yes sir,” he said and Daryl swatted the seat of Peter’s pants. ‘Go sit down,” he ordered.

Peter loved how Daryl had decorated his home. He liked deep shades of green as his window curtains and carpets testified. He also liked warms shades of brown in the wooden panneling of the place and the rugs. There were paintings on two walls of the living room/parlour and the other two walls were ceiling to floor book shelves. Peter had explored them, and they were half literature and half legal texts. Many of them, both genres, were leather bound. Twice Peter had luxuriated in the books until, Daryl offered something equally enthralling.

“Here you go, you’re small, but not too small snifter of brandy,” Daryl said handing the wide glass to Peter. “Sip slowly,” he said.

Peter nodded and took his first sip. “This is good,” he said. “My story is not very good.” And he told it all, not leaving out his strange moment at The Enchanted Book Forest. He told the story straight through without taking a sip from the snifter. Now that he was done, he took two sips and leaned back staring at Daryl.

“Well, you didn’t have any of the tell tale signs of someone who is fabricating a testimony. So, I’m going to take it all as gospel. Let’s take it apart, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter said.

“First part,” those two little girls did sing the second verse you heard, and even though the teacher says she didn’t hear it, the fact is she wasn’t really paying attention, since she didn’t expect anything unusual, and her mind wandered about her upcoming doctor’s appointment or having to call her mother or whatever, and missed the second verse.”

Peter shifted on the comfortable couch and looked across the room at Daryl. Of course, it’s significant that Daryl didn’t choose to sit next to me, but across from me in that chair.

“Then there’s the second verse that came in the disappearing email. Did you know that google actually provides a self-destructing email as part of their Confidental Mode feature. You don’t actually see the message…”

“But I saw the message. It was a whole four lines of poetry,” Peter interrupted.

“Two possibilities,” Daryl said, “you created the four lines yourself,” he held up his hand as Peter opened his mouth to argue, “OR,” he said. “Google also has a feature called disappearing message that you can actually see before it disappears.”

“But this didn’t just disappear. I told you. The letters slid and dripped and then vanished.”

“Another google innovation no doubt,” Daryl said. “Or your sender is a techie who worked out a ‘fix’ himself.”

“Okay! Okay! But why the ‘Patty Cake’ verse? That person, whoever it was, would have had to know about the girls.”

Daryl was silent. Peter waited, and he waited at least a full minute before Daryl answered. He spoke very quietly and as he did he maintained calm, but directd eye contact. “Peter, I think you made it up yourself.” Peter’s lips parted, and Daryl’s hand went up again. “Before you curse me out, let me tell you how the mind works. I see this with people who are on trial for serious offenses. If they are frightened, or crafty, or possibly sick, enough, they began to create information. My guess is that some of them are aware that they’re doing it, but at least half aren’t. Hearing that terrible verse those girls made up was disconcerting, maybe even slightly traumatic, violence coming from innocence. And, it moved right into the abstract when the teacher practically swore on a bible that she didn’t hear it. You knew you heard it, so when that disappearing message arrived, your overwrought mind temporarily provided proof that evil ‘Patty Cake’ messages existed.”

Peter was silent thinking about it. He wanted to say that Daryl’s response was far-fectched, but he honestly couldn’t. It felt plausible and possible. It disturbed him to think that he had possibly been so upset that he had created a disappearing email as a reaction. Abruptly, he felt angry. He remembered sitting at the computer, seeing the parent’s name clearly, Cory Brownstein, and then opening it and seeing that ugly four lines. He forced himself to speak quietly, “I was upset when the teacher said she didn’t hear the ‘Witch’s needle’ verse, but I didn’t imagine the email and four lines of verse that disappeared.”

“Do you remember the verses?” Daryl asked.

Peter nodded.

Daryl raised his eyebrows. “Repeat them.”

Once again, Peter repeated the verse about the witch’s pin and the email verse about the strychnine poisoning.

Daryl nodded, “I believe it. All of it. But, come upstairs, and let’s help you completely forget all about it, at least for awhile. They left their snifters in the sink to soak with a little dish detergent and water, and for the first time since their first itimacy, they undressed and climbed into Daryl’s bed without first washing.

In bed, Daryl ran his fingers through Peter’s hair and said, “I think you should move in here. I need to shove my fingers through these thick black curls on a regular basis. Also, if those verses are somehow coming from a source we don’t know about, they are very threatening. I don’t like you living alone.” Before Peter could say how touched he was, Daryl held him very securely and kissed him. For an hour, Peter actually forgot about Patty Cake.

Chapter Four

He was less fortunate in his dreams. His body might be locked to Daryl’s, but his mind went traveling. He was in a library, one of his favorite places in the world. As seldom happens in dreams, he had an olfactory experience. It was the warm, promising smells of leather, paper and ink. It was a smell that you never got in the large chain book stores, but it was a familiar smell to anyone who has spent childhood and adult hours in a small cozy library. The dream library was a little book room and Peter wasn’t sure if he was a boy in the dream or still a man.

Peter had many dreams of being in libraries and book stores and in every one of those dreams he had been unable to touch a book even when it had a half-seen enticing cover that promised a deep, enthralling reading experience. But, in this dream he was able to do more than that. He was able to touch books and open them. The part of his mind that realized he was in a dream said, I can see the words on the pages. He knew that if he saw anything in a dream, it was his own imagination creating it. His imagination had never been this good.

One book caught his attention. He was almost certain that the cover art was by Arthur Rackham. It seemed to be the Rackham edition of “The Wind in the Willows.” This was a book Peter had first loved as a child and continued to love and read once a year. He had two editions of “Willows,” both illustrated by Ernest Shepherd, but the Rackham cover was evocative in capturing Ratty and Mole sculling along the river bank.

Peter picked up the book and opened it. He saw another Rackham illustration inside. It was a color plate, but it didn’t remain constant in his mind. First it seemed to be a reproduction of the cover and then it looked like the scene from Alice in Wonderland where the cards fly up at her.

Peter was able to turn two pages that looked like a list of chapters and then came to what was usually a dedication page. He saw it with complete clarity and was simultaneously terrified and unable to look away. It was four lines of a poem and he knew, instantly, that it was another Patty Cake verse.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, acid in your face,

Make sure to use a lot so you won’t leave a trace,

Skin gone, muscle gone nothing left but bone.

Still you’ll find that Patty Cake won’t leave you alone.

There was one more line right at the bottom of the page.

When will you be home?”

Frightened as he was, he woke himself up by responding out loud, “It doesn’t rhyme!”

“What!?” Daryl had awakened, half by Peter’s last words which had actually been shouted out loud, and half by his jerking out of Daryl’s arms and sitting up. “Are you okay? Why did you shout like that? And what did you say? ‘It doesn’t rhyme? What’s that?”

Peter’s teeth were chattering, Daryl could hear them. “Oh shit! You’re in shock,” he said. He gathered up all the covers and wrapped them firmly around Peter. “Don’t move!” he ordered. He disappeared for a minute and came back with something brown between two fingers, “Open your mouth, it’s chocolate,” he said.

Peter obeyed and the familiar sweet, earthy flavor flooded his mouth. He chewed and it intensified. When he swallowed, his teeth were no longer castanets, but Daryl pushed another piece of the chocolate into his mouth. “Chew,” he ordered.

It was only after Daryl had eaten the second piece of chocolate, that the shaking stopped and Daryl looked at his eyes. They had been dilated a moment ago, but were back to normal.

“How are you feeling?” Daryl asked.

“Much better. Thank you,” Peter said. “I…I had a really terrible dream. It was way too real…in every detail.”

“Do you want to tell me about it, or do you need a little more time and distance?”

“No,” Peter said, “I want to tell you. I don’t want to have it just inside me. Do you know what I mean?”

“Sure. A horror shared is a horror now effecting two people.” He laughed. “Just kidding. Of course I want you to tell me.”

Peter looked very serious, “I don’t want to share a horror with you, Daryl.”

Daryl stared at his lover. Peter was serious.

“Just a moment,” Daryl said.

They were both naked, and Daryl brought two robes from his closet and gave one to Peter. “Let’s do the telling with a cup of coffee. There’s no way I’m letting you off without telling me this dream. Does the coffee sound good?”

“It sounds wonderful,” Peter said.

“But I’m only giving you half caf. I don’t want you breaking into the shakes again.”

One of the robes was Peter’s that he’d brought and left at Daryl’s house along with a pair of slippers. Soon the two men were downstairs in Daryl’s kitchen where the decorative motif continued with dark wood cabinets and forest green counters, refrigerator, and stove. Peter noticed, once again, that there were no magnets or notes pinned to Daryl’s frig as there were on Peter’s.

“You are a neat freak,” Peter said, feeling much better with the chocolate’s sugar coursing through his system.

“And you are a fuss budget,” Daryl said as his coffee maker started releasing that drug-addicting smell and its carafe began to fill.

“I’m also making some toast and you’ll eat yours with jam. Whattaya like? Strawberry or…what do I have…” Daryl peered into his refrigerator. Peter knew it was organized better than Whole Foods shelves. “Strawberry, Apricot or Marmalade?”

“Strawberry,” Peter said.

As Daryl moved smoothly about toasting bread, laying plates, knives, spoons, and cream and filling cups with coffee, regular for Daryl and half and half for Peter.

Finally, it was done and Peter had center stage.

“The dream started out so well,” Peter began and he described the books and how uncannily clear and detailed everything was. “Then I picked up a copy of Wind in the Willows with Arthur Rackham illustrations and…” He told Daryl about the dedication page and the new verse or Patty Cake. He had no trouble remembering it; it was burned into his memory as if someone had branded the words right into the soft gyri and sulci of his brain.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, acid in your face,

Make sure to use a lot so you won’t leave a trace,

Skin gone, muscle gone nothing left but bone.

Still you’ll find that Patty Cake won’t leave you alone.”

“Well, that’s pleasant,” Daryl said dryly.

“There was one more line…at the bottom of the page.” Peter repeated the line.

Daryl said. “No wonder you cried out, that’s terrifying!” Daryl repeated the last line, ‘When will you be home? Very menacing.”

“Who’s doing this to me?” Peter said.

Daryl shook his head. He looked miserable. “Pete, I still think what I thunk before.”He reached out and hugged Peter, and as he held him, he said, “For some reason you’re creating these rhymes. Don’t you see? No one can get into your sleeping brain.”

“What if someone can?” Peter said. His voice was low and serious. “What if something has the power to do that? The same something that did the other verses.”

The men sat side-by-side at the forest green counter surrounded by the wonderful aromas of coffee and toast. Daryl got up, took hold of Peter, and raised him from his seat and into a hug. “Peter, listen to me,” Daryl hold Peter at arm’s length, “we all have built in triggers that sometimes fire without our knowledge. They can cause changes in our chemistry that can affect our balance, our vision, our thinking. We need to get you to your doctor for a good check up, and if that doesn’t turn anything up, we’ll get a referral.”

“A referral?” Peter said. He stiffened in Daryl’s arms.

“You know what I’m going to say,” Daryl said quietly.

Peter did know and he squirmed. How long can a person be healthy if he tries to conceal his trueself? Is this me punishing myself? It seemed so logical, but why did he still have strong doubts?

“I think you’re right,” Peter said. Daryl drew Peter lose again and hugged him firmly and kissed him. It made Peter feel warm and good about his decision.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think I need help.”

Chapter Five

Daryl’s brownstone was the perfect place to work. Peter marked his papers while Daryl worked on a legal brief. Peter had worked at Daryl’s house several times and each time he found it vastly more comfortable than his apartment.

Daryl had a knack, not just for creating warm environments whose ccolors calmed and warmed you, but also in his choice of furniture. All of Peter’s chairs promoted good posture, and his couch was so soft so that you sank into it quite a bit and sometimes had to kick your feet in order to swing your body out of it. In contrast, Daryl’s two sofas were from Kova and they was both soft and comfortable, but its feather stuffed pillows had a way of pushing back a bit so your body felt wonderful sitting on it, but it was also easy to rise when you wanted to.

His chairs came from various sources, but they were equally comfortable. Daryl also seemed to have an endless supply of healthy things to munch on while working. Between the furniture, the healthy and delicious snacks, and Daryl’s hugs and kisses, Peter was almost completely content. It was only when the hideous rhymes and words of “Patty Cake,” forced themselves into his head that he looked up and started to wonder if he was doing the right thing agreeing to see his doctor and get a psych referrral. When he felt very insecure about the decision, he slipped up to Daryl and kissed him. Daryl instinctivy read the kiss and knew that Peter was feeling insecure. Daryl turned around in his chair and pulled Peter into his lap. “Let’s take a break,” he said and kissed Peter. He looked at his watch, “It’s 1:00, so let’s go down and have a little lunch at Carol’s. How’s that bubelah?”

Peter loved it when Daryl called him that. He knew it was a yiddish term of endearment that meant ‘little one’ or ‘sweetie.’ Peter smiled and stretched. “I think that’s a great idea.”

The two men threw on light jackets. It was October, and the New York weather was changeable. The meteorologist might report a mild day in the high 70’s with a light wind, and then the wind turned out to be not so mild and the high 70[s only got up to 73 degrees. “I’m glad we wore jackets,” Peter said as Daryl locked the Brownstone door and looked up. Peter followed his eyes and looked up too. “What/” he asked.

“Nothing,” Daryl said, “don’t you ever look back at your apartment after you lock the door? I always glance up; I guess to make sure I didn’t leave any windows opened upstairs.”

“Oh, sure,” Peter said. “I’m starved are you?”

“Absolutely, and I crave a cup of Carol’s coffee. I don’t know what blend they use, but I think it beats Starbucks’ wealthy hiney.”

Peter felt an instant craving. “It is the best coffee. I think she puts a little vaporized marijuana liquid into it.”

Carol’s was that dying breed of restaurant that served breakfast, lunch, and dinner and did all three with delicious food and a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Everything was wood paneled and the walls were covered with wonderful works of art, all descretely for sale.Wonderful food fragrances hit you as you opened the door and as if all this wasn’t enough, Carol’s was also a reknowned book store with a vast collection of current, and collector item, books

The twomen had arrived at Carol’s at a good time. The lunch rush was coming to an end, and they got a table right away; unheard of in Manhattan. The waitress who seated them was someone they were familiar with from their many previous meals at Carol’s. Her name was Latoya and she was as warm as toast and skilled in her work. She also had an incredible knack of remember the names of repeat customers.

Peter and Daryl sat at a round table within eyeshot of the wall of books that you could follow to the actual book shop that was tucked behind the kitchen. “Peter and Daryl,” Latoya said, “Welcome back. How are you?”

“Your memory is incredible,” Peter said.

Latoya smiled, “Some guests are just unforgettable. Can I bring you something to drink?”

The men had consumed quite a lot of coffee as they worked, but the smell of Carol’s coffee made them feel that this would be their first cup of the day. Latoya gave them menu’s and moved off to get their coffee.

“What do you think you might have?” Peter asked.

“I feel like a high calorie Reuben,” Daryl said, “but I just might go for a salad. They have a strawberry and feta cheese salad that’s got a dressing you don’t get from Paul Newman. What about you?”

“I’d love to have their crepes, but I think I’ll be virtuous and have the straw…”

Daryl looked up waiting for Peter to finish, but the other man was staring at his menu with over wide eyes.

Peter was reading:

“Patty Cake,Patty Cake, gen-i-tal pie,

Hack them off, bread them good, put ‘em on to fry.

If you don’t like it you can sit around and cry,

But no matter what you do, kiss cuckfuckery goodbbye.”

The new “Patty Cake” was on the menus between the BLT club sandwhich with cole slaw and chips and a vegetable sandwich that contained: tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, carrots, spinach, bell peppers, and avacado. You could also add sprouts, pickled onions, or radishes. It was served with your choice of a cream cheese dressing or vinagarette.

Peter laughed out loud. The new “Patty Cake” verse was in the same print as the sandwiches. It was hilarious. Peter choked, and held out his menu to Daryl. Daryl frowned at the expression on Peter’s face. He took the menu and looked at it. Then he looked back at Peter and raised both his eyebrows and his shoulders.

“Look. Look between the BLT and the vegetable sandwhich.”

Daryl looked again. His eyes passed over the description of the tuna sandwich and then moved on to a description of grilled cheese which was made with cheddar and Gruyère layered on bread that had been buttered and would be grilled once the cheese was on it. This was followed by the vegetable sandwich and its choices.

Daryl looked up. “You saw a new verse, didn’t you?”

Peter was silent. He was shaking a little and deciding what reaction a man should have who saw things that nobody else saw. He was still mulling this over when Daryl got up and knelt beside his seat. ‘You saw another verse, yes?”

Peter nodded, “I’m not going to freak out because you didn’t see it? It didn’t have the same meter as the other rhymes, but it had a very interesting threat in it.”

“Do you wnat to share what it said?”

“I don’t remember all of this one,” Peter said, still shaking a little, “but it was about a penectomy followed by cooking and serving the removed organ.”

Daryl grimaced. “Are you comfortable staying and having lunch, or do you want to just leave?”

Peter thought. He didn’t think he could eat, but maybe that’s something he needed to do. “Let’s stay. I’m not going to let this crap ruin our day.”

“I think that’s a great attitude,” Daryl said. He hugged Peter who forgot to worry about this sort of display in public and leaned into Daryl’s arms. Daryl kissed him and Peter kissed him back. Then Daryl took his seat.

“Let’s talk about good books,” Daryl said with a mile, “or good movies, or good music, or the NFL, or whatever youwant.”

They talked and at first Peter found it hard to focus on anything. Daryl watched him and knew he was distracted, but he thought it was best to keep trying and eventually it started to work.

There was a television show that they both liked even though they questioned their own judgment in how they liked the show. The show was a mountain climbing contest which was genuinely life threatening. Two competitors were tasked with climbing an incredibly tall and difficult mountain in some part of the world. They climbed alone with only their own strength and the use of a piton that they have to lodge in the side of the mountain as a safety anchor. Since this had to be done repeatedly in their ascenct there was always a period of time when they were not anchored at all.

Their beverages and food were delivered and they continued to talk about the show, in an almost determined way as if to stop was to invite Patty Cake back into their lives. Their efforts were valiant and Peter actually forgot about Patty Cake as they discussed one particular climber who kept winning and going from one mountain to another, risking his life over and over again winning a million dollars each time he got to the top first.

At one point, Daryl made a joke about one of the very skilled climbers whose nose had been running and he had been in a position where he just needed to let it run. Daryl laughed, but Peter froze. His mind has slipped away from the mountain climbers. It was making up a Patty Cake verse.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake climb till you drop

There’s more than one way to make it to the top,

Lie and cheat and threaten if you’re caught,

It works much better than you ever would have thought.”

Peter smiled at Daryl. “What is it?” Daryl asked.

Peter chuckled, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I just wrote my very own Patty Cake. Wanna hear it?”

Daryl’s smile disappeared, but Peter’s didn’t. He started to repeat the verse.

“What do you think about my making up that verse?” Peter asked Daryl.

“I’ll tell you,” Daryl said, “I promise. But I want to know what you think about making up that verse first.”

Peter stopped smiling and looked almost ashamed. “I think those other damn verses are on my mind and then we were talking about The Top, and I…I just felt the rythmn of those other damn rhymes and…” Peter’s voice went lower and he stopped speaking. “It’s a terrible rhyme. ‘Lie and cheat and threaten,’ in order to be successful. I don’t believe in doing that. Do I?”

“No. I don’t believe that you do, but it doesn’t mean that you don’t know people who do that. There was that damn show on t.v. that we watching for awhile. It had that awful millionaire telling people that they were losers if they didn’t stroke his ego enough. Maybe that’s where the verses came from, Peter. Hey, we’re all very complicated.”

“I don’t know. I think …I feel like something is happening to me.”

Daryl reached across the table and took one of Peter’s hands, “Something is happening to you. If it’s okay with you I’d like to make a call to see if someone can see you today. Her name is Dr. Charlotte Stanley. She’s a Clinical Psychologist and I helped her with some legal issues. We became friendly. She’s an older woman, and terrifically smart. She really appreciated our working relationship and said I could call her any time, so how about it?”

Peter looked aroud the restaurant and gave a deep sigh. “Sure. Anything.”

“I’ll be right back,” Daryl said.

He got up and went into a secluded area near the bar and took out his cell phone. Peter could see Daryl smile and start talking. This went on for nearly ten minutes then he hurried back to the table.l

“Come on. I already paid for lunch and Dr. Stanley can fit you in, but we have to hurry over there.”

“I didn’t see you pay…”

“I’m sneaky. You know that. Let’s go.”

Chapter Six

Theres something about riding in a cab that’s always soothing, Peter thought. He sat upright until Daryl put an arm around him and pulled him close so that Peter was comfortably leaning against him. It made the taxi ride evern more comforting. It was a gray day, but not a gloomy one. Looking out the window as they passed Manhattan store windows, Peter saw autumnal colors everywhere. He pointed out several to Daryl who gave him an extra squeeze each time he did.

It wasn’t long before the cab pulled up to the curb and Daryl leaned foreward to pay. “Oh no you don’t” Peter said. “You paid for lunch….”

“And you are on a principal’s salary. Get lost!” Daryl paid for the cab and Peter found that he didn’t feel guilty; he felt that someone was taking care of him. He was very much in charge at school; it was nice to have someone relieve you of some responsibilities.

The psychologist’s office was in a building on Madison Avenue. It had the usual awning and smiling doorman to greet you. Peter always went out of his way to smile and say “Hello” and “Thank you.” He felt it was little enough to do for someone who might not get remunerated highly for treating dozens of people a day with personal regard.

“God, you not only play the part of a school head, you live it,” Daryl chuckled as they entered the lobby.

“There’s only one Peter,” he responded, and then a thought hit him, Or is there only one?

Dr. Stanley’s office was on the eighth floor. There was a simple apartment door with a neat name plate that read:

It really was a very modest name plate, but it seemed huge to Peter as Daryl opened the door and ushered him into the outer office.

There were little groupings of chairs, but no one was in any of the seats.

“Am I the only patient?” Peter asked.

“Today you are,” Daryl said, “she’s seeing you as a favor. She also lives here. There’s a whole beautiful apartment behind her office.”

A door opened and a tall, very attractive Black woman appeared. “Hello, Daryl, she said and the two gave a quick hug, “And you are Mr. McDonnell,” she said to Peter. “I’m Charlotte Stanley.”

“Hello, Dr. Stanley,” Peter said as they shook hands. “Please call me Peter, and thank you for seeing me today. I didn’t realize that you didn’t have office hours on Saturday.”

“The weekends are my glory,” she said. Then she leaned forward a bit, smiled and said, “But I’m very happy to see you. Daryl’s told me that you’re the premiere principal in New York and a great teacher to boot.”

Peter face felt like a stove.

“He’s also told me that you’ve had an unsettling series of experiences. Come in, Peter.”

Daryl took a seat and picked up a newspaper from a table that had a neat display of papers and magazines. He winked at Peter, as he disappeared into Dr. Stanley inner ofice.

Dr. Stanley’s office spoke of comfort and caring. She sat in a chair that looked very comfortable and his seat was identical to hers.

“Would you like some coffee or tea? There’s also water and soda in that frig.”

“I’m fine for now.”

“Before you tell me about these events that have been plaguing you, would you mind telling me a little about yourself?”

“Sure, that’s fine,” Peter said. “I’m the Head of an Elementary School on a beautiful campus. I also teach a special reading course across the grades and I love getting that time with the kids. I’m also very busy with classroom observations, and grade level meetings plus coordinating the various services that work with the school.” Brian briefly told Dr. Stanley about his work with maintenance and food service and transprtation. He told her about the plots of land each class cultivarted and about The Enchanted Book Forest

“Your school sounds wonderful and I can hear the enthusiasm in your voice,” Dr. Stanley said. She clasped her hands together. “Now tell me about your personal life. How is that treating you? Do you find it satisfying, fulfilling?”

Peter sat in his chair and felt as if a weight had dropped in his stomach. It was so easy to talk about work, why wasn’t it as easy to talk about his personal life? He swallowed and started. “I’m a gay man, Dr. Stanley.” He paused. “Daryl and I are very close. We have an intimate relationship.” He paused again. “I’m not out. Not to my family. Not to my school.” He was silent for a minute and Dr. Stanley was quiet the whole time. “I’m afraid.”

“I understand fear,” Dr. Stanley said. She didn’t need to say anything more. Peter had some knowledge of what Black people had to put up with. He had watched George Floyd die under the knee of Derek Chauvin as observers to the murder tried, in vain, to intervene.

She did understand fear; Peter felt safe with Dr. Stanley. “I’m worried that I’ll lose my job hat parents won’t feel safe puitting their children under my care. I’m afraid of going out with Daryl and being seen with him in a restaurant, or a theater, or at a baseball game, or hoilding hands, or, God forbid, kissing.

Dr. Stanley nodded. “All real fears, but fortuantely you’re living in a state that recognizes your right to love who you want. Sadly, it can’t control everyone’s reaction to that love.I’m married to a white man.” She sstopped there for a moment.

Peter squirmed a bit in his chair.

“Now let’s talk about Patty Cake.”

Peter told her about each instance and, as best as he could remember what the veres were.

“And no one else has seen or heard any of these?”

“No. When I saw one in my menu and gave it to Daryl to see, it was gone.”

“Why do you think this is happening?” Dr. Stantley asked Peter.

“I don’t know why. Daryl thinks that I’m making them up myseslf.”

“Do you think that he might be right?”

“I think that would be a logical explanation…. His voice didn’t put a period after his words.

“But you think it might be coming from some other source.”

Peter shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

“Peter,” Dr. Stanley began, “sometimes when we repress things, and we do it for a long time, and the feelings surrounding what we repress are very, very intense, our mind has a way of striking back against itself. You might develop terrible headaches, or have abdominal issues. You might walk in your sleep or not be able to sleep at all. Or, in some cases, there might be some stranger manifestations of this repression. “

“Like the Patty Cake verses,” Peter said.

Dr. Stanley said, “That or you are the victim of some truly incredible phenomenon. Do you think that’s what’s happening?”

Peter sighed, “I’m so confused. I think I heard the girls say that second verse,but it’s hard to believe that the other verses, except for the one I made up myself, were real. They all disappeared.” Peter shook his head. “I guess it’s hard to really accept that my mind is doing this to me.”

“I’d like you to do something,” Dr. Stanley said. “I want you to sit down and write a really well though out scenario in which you stop hiding your sexual identity from your school, live your life with Daryl publically, and what you think the aftermath will be.”

“Okay,” said Peter. He began thinking about it, but Dr. Stanley interrupted his thoughts. She leaned forward, “Then I want you to preapre a similarly well thought-out scenario in which you never come out and what that will look like going into the future.”

Peter sat and was suddenly aware of his right leg going up and down on his toes. He made it stop. “Okay,” he said at last.

“I’m going to write a prescription for a very mild anxiety reduting medication. It’s so mild that you might not even feel it, but it should just take a little of your anxiety away. Then I’d like to see you in a week. Can you get the assignment done in that time?”

Peter smiled, “I keep a list of things I have to do, and I do them.”

“I do exactly the same thing,” Dr. Stanley said. “Now let’s set that date.”

The next meeting wouldn’t be on a Saturday. It would be on a Monday evening at 6:00. Peter thought, I’ll just have to leave work a couple of hours earlier than usual. He thought that might actually be nice. He’d set it up with his secretary on Monday.

Dr. Stanley got up and held out her hand, Peter took it and smiled, “Thank you so much for seeing me on your day off. I appreciate it.”

“I enjoyed our session, and I think we made a good start. Really think about those two possible futures, Peter.”

“I will, see you on Friday.”

Dr. Stanley went out iinto the outer waiting room to say ‘Hello’ to Daryl. He also thanked her, by her first name, for seeing Peter. “My pleasure, really.” She looked at Peter, “Friday at 6:00,” she said. Peter nodded and thanked her again.

It was only 4:00 p.m. went they left the building, but the gray sky was already growing dimmer.

“Let’s walk a little and get a coffee,” Peter said.

“I’d really like to take your hand,” Daryl said.

Peter looked around the street. He didn’t see anyone he recognized, but he knew that families from his school lived in the neighborhood. Peter felt a sickening tug. He wanted Daryl to take his hand. He wanted the contact and the security, but he was so fearful. Fuck it!

Peter held out his hand and smiled a little tentatively.

Daryl took his hand and said, “I’m proud of you.”

They walked two blocks to a Starbucks, and Peter worried about being seen all the way there.

They sat at a table for two sipping lattes and Peter stared at Daryl. “You know I really love you, don’t you?”

Daryl put his hand over Peter’s, “Babe, I love you, and I want you to leave that goddamn apartment today and move in with me. Will you do it?”

Peter shivered, someone had come into Starbucks and brought a wind with her, but it wasn’t the wind that made him shiver. “I want to do that more than anything, but can you give me a little more time and not give up on me.”

“You know I can,” Daryl said. He made his face stern, “Now drink your latte or I’ll have to put you across my knee and smack your bottom.”

“Back at your place,” Peter said, grinning and simultaneously turning crimson.

Chapter Seven

There was no spanking when they got back to Daryl’s brownstone, but there was intimacy, and then dinner, and then some more intimacy before they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

In the middle of the night, Peter woke from a satisfying dream in which he was flying over a forest, or maybe it was the Enchanted Book Forest back at school. He was still curled next to a sleeping Daryl and he had a heavy bladder. He slipped away from Daryl’s arm and headed for the bathroom. There was a bathroom downstairs, but the upstairs bathroom was built as part of the master bedroom. Once out of bed, Peter slipped around a corner of the room and into a little area wbere there was a sink, mirror and medicine cabinet on one wall and a large closet on the other. A door at the end of this area opened onto the bathroom. Sleepily, Peter sat on the toilet to empty his bladder yawning hugely and eager to get back into bed and the warmth of Daryl’s body.

He flushed with the door closed, so as not to disturb the sleeping Daryl and then slipped out of the bathroom. Walking past the mirrored medicine cabinet, Peter startled, and stopped. He stared into the mirror. In the dark he could just make out his face and even more vaguely the closet behind him, but for a moment, he thought he’d seen something else. It was so quick, and so dark, but for a moment he thought he saw someone else in the mirror.

I’m dreaming on my feet, Peter thought and quickly tiptoed back to the bed and crawled under the covers and snuggled against Daryl’s back. Daryl stirred, turned over, and threw an arm over Peter. Peter found the warmth he had hoped for and drifted off.

The rest of Peter’s night was, sadly, not as satisfying as his earlier flying dream. Instead, he was plagued by a nightmare that seemed never-ending. He dreamt he was in a dark hallway. It must have been in a house, because there were many doors off the passage he was in and all the doors were shut and locked. He didn’t try any of the doors, because as is often the case in dreams, you know things without being told. There were tiny dim lanterns next to the doors, but they did little more than reveal the door below them; the hall was very, very dark. Peter had the feeling that there was something else in the hallway, something moving in the shadows. Because it was a dream, he had limited power and could only continue floating down the terrible hallway while a presence he could not see, but knew through dream knowledge, that it was a horror, sly and elusive and there to do something terrible to him while he was powerless to act in any defensive way.

How long the dream went on, Peter had no idea. It might have only been minutes long or hours, but dream time is not waking time, but to poor Peter it felt as if his fearful suffering went until he was awakened by Daryl stirring beside him.

Peter startled and opened his eyes.

“You look like you just fought in a war,” Daryl said. He tried to smile and make light of it, but something in Peter’s eyes triggered concern. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“Yeah,” Peter said.

Daryl leaned on his pillow and put his free arm around Peter. “Do you want to tell me?”

Peter considered. He wanted to tell, but it was too soon. His waking mind still retained images of the hallway and h is nerves remember the feeling of the other presence.

“No. it’s okay. I’m gong to wash my face in cold water>”

“Good idea.” Daryl said, “Ive found that a cold water face wash is a great antidote to a lousy dream.”

Daryl wrapped a robe around his naked body and for a moment, Peter felt arousal, but he hurried to the bathroom deciding that the cold water trumped sex.

Daryl was right, the cold water face wash actually banished the drream images from his mind. He left the bathroom and found that Daryl had gone downstairs. I bet he’s going to make breakast and surprise me. No way I’m letting hm do that by hmself.

Peter slipped on his pants and shirt, skipped socks, and jammed his bare feet into a pair of blue and white sneakers, and hurried downstairs.

As Peter came down the stairs, he saw at once that Daryl wasn’t in the kitchen. The staircase ended in the hallway facing the front door and Daryl was standing in front of it. He wasn’t moving.

Peter had been skipping down the stairs, but he stopped and walked slowly down the last few ssteps.”What is it?” he said quietly, not wanting to startle Daryl.

Daryl stepped away from the door and Peter saw what he had been looking at.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, I love you to death,

Slowing your heart, stilling your breath,

No one can help you, no one will care,

Clap out your Patty Cake, give in to despair.”

The Patty Cake was on the inside of the door. As Peter got closer, he couldn’t understand how it was done. It wasn’t scratched into the wood; the letter were thick and difficlt to read because they were the color of the wood.

Tentatively he put his hand out and touched it.

“Somehow it was pressed into the wood, like some sort or stamping machine,” Daryl said. He looked at Peter, and then he said what Peter already feared he would say, “How did you do it, Peter?”

Chapter Eight

Peter didn’t answer: he couldn’t. The terrible reality of the accusation hit him and seemed to paralyze his brain. He stared at Daryl and then at the door. This Patty Cake was not just something written in a letter or sung by young girls. This was much bigger and the first time someone else saw it.

“How do you think I could do this?” Peter said. His voice was so low that Daryl frowned in the effort to hear hin.

Daryl moved his frown to the oddly embossed words in his door. “I..I don’t know.” He stepped up to the door and ran his fingers over the letters. “This is fucking impossible,” he said.

“That’s exactly right,” Peter said, his voice still very low. “It’s fucking impossible and so was the menu, and the letter, and all the rest. Fucking impossible.”

The two men were both quiet now. What do you say when you’re faced with something that can’t be explained, something that pushes your brain into a mass of questions that you can’t answer?

“I should call the police,” Daryl said. Then he frowned and shook his head.

“What’s the matter?” Peter said.
”I can’t call the police. They’ll come here and see this and either think that I had the words pressed into the door myself or make a note of this and go away, never to be seen again. They won’t know what to do with something like this. They might even consider it a prank call; its so peculiar and….and…”

“Impossible,” Peter offered.

Daryl looked at him and nodded. “Yeah…impossible. I need coffee…and I’m gong to put a little scotch in mine. How about you?”

Peter went up to Daryl and looked into his face. “I love you. I know you think that the whole Patty Cake thing is something I’m doing to myself, but you know I didn’t do this.”

Daryl shook his head and reached out with both arms; he pulled Peter close. “I’m so,so sorry,” he said. “I should have believed you right from the start. You’re one of the most intelligent and grounded people I know. I understand your fears about coming out, but this Patty Cake thing.” He shook his head. “This is a genuine mystery.”

The two men stood hugging each other. Then Daryl started kissing Peter, and Peter, almost frantically relieved to share the mystery with his lover, kissed him back with equal fervor.

“Let’s go upstairs and have the coffee and shnapps afterwards.”

Peter nodded, surprised how relief had suddenly made him incredibly horny.

***

An hour later, after a shared shower ended a love-making session that was as lustful as a workout in the gym, and just as sweaty, the Peter and Daryl headed downstairs to yet another surprise. The door was clean. The new Patty Cake verse was gone.

What followed was a period where the two men kept running their fingers over the door searching for a trace of what had been written there. Daryl had said, “Do you think…” he paused as if he were working over what he had been going to say in his mind and deciding whether or not to say it. He decided. “Do you think that the words could possibly have pressed further into the door and are now on the outside where anyone can see them?”

“Jesus,” Peter said. He thought it was exactly what the insidious verse might do. “Open the door and let’s see.”

Daryl opended the door and there it was. Pressed into the wood just as it had been on the inside of the door.

“Wait,” Daryl said. “Something’s wrong. This is crazy. It couldn’t be that the words burrowed into the front of the door, because if it did, the words would be backwards. But look. They’re just as they were on the inside. Facing out so anyone can see them.”

“It’s not the same verse,” Peter said. His voice was hoarse as if he were being strangled..

Both men looked at the front door, forgetting that they were standing on the street wearing nothing but robes. The new Patty Cake rhyme absorbed them completely.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, sun set, sun rise,

Who can believe what they see with their eyes,

Two little men now joined in surprise,

There’s so much more than they can surmise.”

“This is fucking impossible,” Daryl whispered to Peter. His voice sounded as tight and constricted as Peter’s had. “I want to say that someone, some crazy shithead, wrote this on the outside, broke into my apartment and wrote the other rhyme inside.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?’ Peter said.

Daryl shook his head. “Hell no! I don’t know how these things appear, but some weird shit is going down and I want to figure it out.”

As Daryl was speaking, a young man came down the block. Daryl, holding his robe closed, moved down the steps to the street and intercepted him. “Excuse me,” he said. “Can you see the writing on my door?” Daryl gestured.

The man was in his early twenties. Lots of red hair and dressed in a champion sweatshirt and jeans. The man checked out Daryl and raised his eyebrows. He looked at the door and squinted. “Where is the writing?” he asked.

Daryl looked up and saw Peter staring at him with wide eyes and a slightly opened mouth. The writing was gone.

“I’m sorry,” said Daryl, “um. Someone left a message tacked to the door, but someone must have pulled it down…it’s gone now.”

“Okay,” said the red head and hurried on down the street. Daryl climbed back up to Peter.

“Well, he thinks I’m nuts,” Daryl said. “Let’s get off the street before a cop comes and arrests us for indecent exposure.”

The men went back inside the Brownstone. Their first discovery was that the writing on the inside of the door had also vanished.

“Someone said, ‘Abra cadabra,’” Daryl said dryly. “Very anticlimatic after the outside writing went bye bye. Okay! First, I’m making us the coffee with a whiskey chaser. I need it, and my guess is that you do too.”

“I’ve needed it for quite a while,” Peter’s thoughts wandered. What was it Walt Whitman said, Peter thought. '“What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.” Much more.

Daryl broke Peter’s thoughts by grabbing him into a hug and kiss. “You poor guy. You’ve been dealing with this for three days now. Come on, the coffee and chaser together. I’m not leaving you alone till we figure this shit out.”

Chapter Nine

“Remember the old Twilight Zone series hosted by Rod Serling?” Daryl said as soon as they were settled with their coffee and whisky chaser. “Rod introduced a character and plopped it into an inexplicable situation. The poor shmuckwent slightly nuts until the final reveal.”

“If I remember correctly,” Peter said, “the final reveal didn’t always end well for the protagonist. Remember the one about the guy who loved to read, but never had enough time.”

Daryl nodded, “Burgess Meredith with thick, thick lenses playing Henry Bemis, who only wanted to be left alone to read.”

“It was in the Twilight Zone episode Time Enough at Last,” Peter said.

“It didn’t end well for Henry Bemis,” Daryl went on. “The world ended and he had all the time in the world to read, but his glasses broke.”

The coffee was made and while Peter carried two mugs into the living room, Daryl got large shot glasses and filled them with whiskey. Peter was sitting in front of Daryl’s coffee table with the coffee mugs sitting on coasters. Daryl set the shot glasses on two more coasters and sat down beside a quiet and introspective Peter. “What if all the ‘Patty Cakes’ are warnings. They all sounded like warnings: the pin, the strychnine, the acid and the rest. I don’t know who or what is making those ‘Patty Cakes’ appear, but they’re either threats or warnings.”

Daryl was disturbed by the distant and desperate look on his lover’s face. Peter was right beside him, but he could have been miles away. Daryl put an arm around him. “Then we’ll have to be extra careful. But, I can’t help thinking that this is some elaborate trick that’s being played.”

Peter sipped his coffee and looked at Daryl. “Daryl! The DOORS! Who could possibly make an entire verse appear pressed into the wood of your front door and them make them vanish away, and it’s not like just one of us saw them.”

“I can’t give you an answer to that right now, and maybe there isn’t a rational answer, but maybe there is.”

“Those words were embossed into the inside and outside of your door, Daryl. There’s no way that could have been done by someone, and let’s say some Stephen King character got into your house and did that, how could they just disappear.”

Daryl was silent; his eyes narrowed; he sipped some whiskey. “What if they were never there to begin with?”

“How is that possible?” Peter said, taking a gulp himself.

Daryl thought for a moment, “The power of suggestion,” he said. “Just hear me out for a few minutes. Imagine this: someone, maybe even something on the internet or your cell phone, plants the a subliminal message regarding ‘Patty Cake’ and those verses and let’s your imagination do the rest.”

“How do you explain your seeing the same thing that I see?”

“Same thing. Maybe the suggestion is somehow hidden in the words ‘Patty Cake.’”

Peter had been sitting upright, when the discussion started, now he slumped.

“Take a sip of your whiskey,” Daryl said, noting the change in Daryl’s posture. “You look like you need it.”

Peter did as he was told. After he swallowed, he put his forehead against Daryl’s and said, “I love you so much. I know you want to solve this, make it logical. But I don’t think the ‘suggestion’ idea works.”

“I don’t either,” Daryl said with a rueful chuckle. “I think it’s time we did a little research. Let me get my laptop.”

Daryl vanished into his work room and came back a moment later carrying a leather laptop case.

“Make room on the coffee table,” he said. “You can put our glasses on the side tables.” There were two side tables, one on each side of the couch they were sitting on. Peter moved the drink and Daryl sat down and opened his laptop.

“What are we researching?’ Peter asked.

“‘Patty Cake,’ What else?” Daryl had opened the laptop and both men watched as it powered up. Daryl logged in and opened Safari. He typed in The origin of the game Patty Cake. A page opened with a short paragraph at the top. It said that the earliest version of the rhye appeared in a play called “The Campaigners” written in 1698 byt Thomas D’Urfey.

“Click just below it,” Peter said, “where it says ‘The Original Version of the Song.’”

Daryl clicked and the first part repeated the information in the earlier paragraph that the rhyme appeared in Thomas D’Urfey’s play “The Campaigners” and the date, but then it actually had what the earliest version said. In the play the verse was receited to children by their caregiver. This time Peter read aloud.

“Pat a cake, pat a cake Bakers man,

So I wil master as I can,

And prick it, and prick it, and prick it,

And prick it, and prick it, and prick it,

And throw’t into the Oven.”

“I know you have to stick a toothpick into a cake to see if it’s thoroughly cooked,” Daryl said, “ and not wet and raw inside, but why do it so many time?” He turned to Peter. “Have you ever baked a cake?”

Peter nodded, “A couple of times, and I made bread once.”

“Did you ‘prick it’ six times?”

Peter shook his head, “Maybe two times; in the center. You just want to make sure you get down far enough.”

“Six times seems extreme to me,” Daryl said and sipped his coffee and then his whiskey. “Is it just me, or does all that ‘pricking’ sound disturbing?

“It does to me,” Peter said. “It reminds me too much of the second verse I heard Sybil and Donna clap out.”

“Do you remember it,” Daryl asked. “I just remember something about a witch’s pin. Is that right?”

Peter nodded and receited:

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, witch’s pin,

Find a pretty neck and press it in,

Turn it, and twist it, until you see the red,

In less than a minute she will fall…down…dead!”

“Oh shit!” Daryl jumped up and grabbed the two napkins he had set down with the drinks. “Your neck is bleeding!”

Peter reached up, but Daryl wrapped one arm about his shoulders, his hand holding Peter’s head still while his other hand pressed the napkins against his neck on the other side.

“Put your hand on the napkins and press!” Daryl ordered.

With a shaky hand, Peter obeyed. There was no pain, but the napkins got wet and started to drip. Peter felt his fingers grow sticky.

Then Daryl was back with a thick towel and a roll of tape. “I’m going to lie you on your side. It’s going to be okay.” He said.

As he lowered Peter carefully, he wrestled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“You’re not calling 911, are you?”

“Ssh. Just lie still, please.”

Daryl dialed 911 and began the process of being reconnected and describing the patient. What was the nature of the injury? Is the patient conscious? Apply pressure, an ambulance is on its way.

The towel taped to the bleed on Peter’s neck was saturated and Peter didn’t look good. He had gone very pale.

Daryl knelt down and kissed him on the forehead. “Can you keep your hand on the towel and apply pressure? Babe, I’m just going to get another towel.”

As he ran to the bathroom, Daryl went through his rolodex of Red Cross training programs they’d had in his office. There wasn’t much more you could do with bleeding that to try and slow it by putting pressure on the wound.

I didn’t see any wound, Daryl thought hurrying back to the couch. Peter’s hand was slipping off the towel, and Peter himself seemed to be slipping out of consciousness.

“No! No! No! Honey. You stay with me. Peter! Stay with me.” Daryl wasn’t sure whether he should wrap the new towel over the soaked one or replace it. He decided to replace it and was in the act of doing it when he heard the sound of the ambulance.

Looking at Peter, he rushed to the door that had so recently had a ‘Patty Cake’ on it and unlocked and opened it. Then he returned to Peter and managed to replace the wet towel with the dry one. Four men entered his house calling out their presence.

“In here!” Daryl called. Just walk to your right.

Suddenly his living room seemed filled with a six -man medical team.

One of them got down to Peter, while another said, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him. Meantime, you’ll need to give us his name and his medical coverage and any meds he is takiing.

“Shit!” Daryl said again. He wasn’t going to go through Peter’s pockets unless he had too. He’d rely on memory and maybe that would be enough.

As he answered questions, he realized that he would need Peter’s information. Where was his wallet? He put it on the table next to his side of the bed. He told the man and dashed upstairs to get the wallet.

By the time he came back, which must have been twenty seconds, two men were hovering over Peter applying pressure and removing his shirt. Two other men had set up a stretcher on legs next to the couch.

“It looks like he has some kind of tiny wound on his neck,” one of the E.M.T.’s said to Daryl as he prepared to share Peter’s medical information, “Do you know how he got it?”

“No. I’m not even sure that Peter knew he had any kind of wound. He didn’t even know he was bleeding until I saw it.” It was after he recited that fucking Patty Cake shit verse.

“It’s very tiny but whatever caused it seems to have gone in very deep. It’s hard to imagine that your friend didn’t feel it.”

Daryl was getting annoyed; he wanted to get past this guy and over to the man he loved.

“Is he okay?” Daryl asked. “I want to get over to him.”

“You can’t write now, pal. What’s your name again?”

Daryl told him.

“Is this your place?”

“Yes. How is Peter?”

“We’re taking him to the hospital,” the E.M.T. said. He had a name tag that said ‘Angelo DeMichaelis’ on it.

“Angelo, is he conscious?”

“In and out. He’s in shock from the blood loss. You can follow the ambulance. Do you have a car?”

Daryld told him that he did. “Can’t I ride in the ambulance with him?”

“We’ll be working on him on route, and you’ll need your car once we get to the hospital. It’s a tiny wound, almost invisible, so we should be able to staunch the bleeding, but I suspect that he’ll need a transfusion. You’ll need your car, so you follow us. Okay?”

“Yes.” Without asking permission. He left Angelo and pushed in to where the other E.M.T.’s were around Peter.

“I want him to know that I’m here,” Daryl said.

“Daryl,” an E.M.T. labeled Donald Connor said, “he’s not really conscious.”

Daryl supressed, a mad, hysterical desire to ask Donald Connor if he sang and danced, and pushed through them to Peter’s side. He was very pale and that made Daryl’s heart dance unpleasantly. He grabbed Peter’s hand and kissed it. “I’m here baby,” he said. “Daryl is here.”

They raised the stretcher and wheeled it to the front door that had been partly opened all this time. Daryl’s mind raced to what he might need if he was in the hospital for as long as he imagined he might be. He had his wallet and car keys. The men were leaving; there was no time for any hunting and gathering. He needed to follow the ambulance.

Outside, as they loaded Peter into the ambulance, Angelo said, “We’ll take him to Emergency. You should go into the Emergency waiting room. They won’t let you see hin until we’ve stabilized him. We’ll make sure they notify you. If his condition worsens, they may let you in earlier.” He reached out and put a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. Take a deep breath, I think your buddy is going to be okay.”

“He’s my boy friend,” Daryl said.

“Okay,” Angelo said and smiled. He climbed into the back of the ambulance and called out to Daryl. “I think they’ve stopped the bleeding. Relax, he should be fine.”

The ambulance doors remained opened for another few minutes as they attached Peter to a drip and continued to work around his neck.

Bandaging it, maybe, Daryl thought. Magically, for Manhattan, Daryl had parked his car right across the street. Still, he needed to get in it and turn it around if he wanted to follow the ambulance. He realized that he wasn’t sure which hospital they were taking him to. Probably Lenox Hill, Daryl thought. It’s the nearest.

The ambulance had finally closed its back doors when Daryl pulled his car behind it. in another moment they were on their way. As Daryl put his car in drive and tapped his gas pedal he suddenly wondered, What did the next verse of that fucking song say? Wasn’t it something about poison?

Chapter 10

Daryl was unprepared for how long he would sit in the Emergency Waiting Room or the company he would be sitting with. Everyone was required to wear a face mask, and Daryl, who hadn’t worn a mask in months, was forced to remember how annoying the masks were. Each intake of air pulled the mask against your lips, and each exhalation surrounded you with hot breath and carbon dioxide. Get infected or suffocate, Daryl thought. He felt like getting infected was preferable, but with the large, MASKS ARE REQUIRED sign, he had no options. A security Guard sat at a desk surrounded by a protective plexiglass shield. Because of his shield and constantly ringing phone, he escaped the mask mandate. Daryl was unprepared for how long he would sit and kept visiting to ask about Peter. The last time, the man had said, “Peter McDonnell is still waiting for a room. You'll be allowed to visit once he's got a room and they decide he can have a visitor.”

Daryl thanked the man and returned to his seat, nerves jangling. He took out his cell phone to check emails and distract himself, but he almost immediately returned it to his pocket. He could only concentrate on Peter. He kept going over the rapid sequence of events that had landed him in the room of masks. He just recited that fucking Patty Cake verse and started bleeding. Daryl’s right foot started bouncing. It was something he did when he was angry, bored, or felt helpless.People in the Waiting Room wouldn't notice; many of them also had bouncing feet.

It isn't possible, Daryl thought, to recite a verse from a kid’s hand game and suddenly discover that what happened in the verse is happening to you. But then he thought about his front door. A message had been branded into the wood on both sides of the door, and then, POOF, gone! That can’t just happen. But it happened. How did it happen?

Daryl looked around the room for something to distract him. Due to crowding, they were unable to enforce the Covid rule of spacing the seating. Everyone sat next to someone, and if someone had Covid, there was a pretty good chance, mask or not, that you might catch it.

Daryl thought about contagion. What if other things were contagious? Not just a virus? What if you repeated certain words, and those words contained a bad message? What if that message was a threat? Could repeating that threat infect you in some way? You said the words, and then you caught the infection. The words became an action.

Daryl shelved this thought and looked around the waiting room again. There wasn’t much else to do. His eyes slowly traveled from face to face. Many of them looked at their cell phones, but some looked at a clock that hung on one wall,and a small t.v. set mounted so high on the wall that only people sitting in certain seats could watch it. A few had folded their arms and closed their eyes. He wondered if they were really asleep. I doubt it, he decided. Who can sleep in an emergency waiting room when someone you care about is out of reach, suffering in some way, and you can’t be at their side? Then again, some of the people might have been sitting here for hours. Would he sit for hours before he got to see Peter?

Daryl looked at his watch. It had been fifteen minutes since he last went to the guard in his fishbowl and inquired about Peter. Was that too short a time to expect a change in status? Daryl thought about how long he had to wait in a courtroom while various businesses went on. Not only did he have to wait, but he had to do so with a neutral face. Looking irritated could easily influence a judge against you. Daryl looked at his watch and decided, I will give it another five minutes before I speak to the Guard again. He made note of the time and looked at his watch again. How could five minutes take so long? Stupid minute hand!

Eventually, five minutes passed, and Daryl was up and at the protective blister. The Guard looked up; Daryl smiled and gave his name and the patient’s name. “Can I see him? Last time I asked they were waitiing until he had a room and was stable.”

It seemed to Daryl as if checking a patient’s status was a matter of personal annoyance to the Guard. Maybe it was. I saw at least eight people go up to him at one time or another. They probably all feel as impatient as I do, and it’s his fucking job!

The Security Guard took Peter's name from Daryl and turning his chair, so he was no longer facing Daryl, called someone within the inner sanctum. After a short conversation, the chair swiveled back, and the Guard reached for a yellow paper. Daryl saw him write his name and then a room number. He handed the paper to Daryl, "Stick it on your shirt," he instructed. Daryl looked down and stuck the pass on his shirt pocket. “Come on," said the Guard. "I’ll take you in. He’s in Green 41; I’ll show you where it is. It's like a maze in there.”

“Thank you,” Daryl said. The Security Guard was suddenly human. Daryl wasn’t suprised at how grateful he felt for this switch. You’re so dependent on everyone who works in a hospital, and the last thing you want to do is get on anyone's bad side. The Guard used a number code to unlocked a door beside the receptionist's desk. Daryl took a deep breath. He felt grateful that in a moment he would be free from the agony of the Emergency Waiting Room.

As the Guard typed the code, Daryl was distracted by a movement near the receptionist’s desk. The automatic door to the emergency room had opened and a man was framed in the doorway. The person was not looking at the receptionist, who was holding out a mask, he was staring straight at Daryl. In the moment before the Security Guard said, “This way, pal,” Daryl saw a tall, thin man, well groomed and casually dressed in a hoody and jeans. The man didn’t seem to have a problem with staring, but Daryl did. He turned and followed the guard through the door that closed behind him.

“You know that guy?” the Guard asked as he headed down a corridor with a sign that read, “Yellow, Green and Red” and had an arrow pointing the way.

“No,” Daryl said.

“We get them all,” the Guard said.

Daryl was shocked to remember that for a moment, just as long as it had taken to exchange glances with the man in the door, he had forgotten about Peter.

Chapter 11

Peter was sitting up and receiving a blood transfusion. As Daryl entered the room, Peter grinned broadly. He looked rosy and alert as if nothing had happened. However, the bandage that wound around his neck contradicted that. The plastic bag filled with Peter's clothes and hung at the end of the hospital bed told a different story. Everything in the bag was massively stained with blood. I’ll have to go home and get clean clothes for him.

Daryl was beside the bed and leaned down to kiss Peter. Peter’s eye nervously flitted to the Nurse adjusting his transfusion bag, and Daryl moved instead to hug Peter gingerly. He also put one protective hand on Peter’s head. “How you feeling, kid?”

“I feel great,” Peter said, “but everything about this feels unreal.”

Daryl stood up to respond, but the Nurse spoke first. Her comments were directed at Peter, but her eyes included Daryl. “You're doing very well; you responded beautifully to the transfusion. When you finish this bag and after Dr. Nyungen comes to speak with you, I think you might be discharged. Dr. Nyugen will decide and I know he'll want you to make an appointment with your primary care physician. He’s already communicated with him.”

“Any idea when the Doctor will be coming to see Peter?” Daryl asked.

Dr. Nyugen has a lot of patients to see, so I’d give it another hour or so.” The Nurse, whose name badge identified her as Katherine Raito, wrote something on the white board beside Peter’s bed, and left.

Daryl looked at what the Nurse had written on the board. “She wrote down the time and how much of the bag you finished; eighty percent.

“Does Dr. Nyugen have any idea what caused the bleeding?” Daryl asked, gently sitting on the side of Peter’s bed.

Peter shrugged,“They didn’t speak to me very much, I was mostly out of it for awhile. Later, when I could listen, they said that something thin, but long, had gotten into my neck and punctured a vein; that’s what caused all the bleeding.”

Daryl got up and hugged Peter careful not to disturb his line. “It’s crazy; I was looking right at you, and suddenly you were bleeding.” He was going to say, After you finished repeating that rhyme, but decided against it. A feeling, something like terror, had stopped him. “Did they take whatever caused the bleeding out of your neck?”

“No,” Peter said, “it’s crazy. Whatever went in and caused the bleeding, must have fallen out before they could find it. They put a little bandage on my neck, but they said that the puncture is so tiny that they had to use some kind of magnifying glass to see it. The only reason the bandage is so big, is because of how much it bled. They put a tiny stitch over the spot.”

Daryl looked at the bandage and the words of the rhyme played over in his mind.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake Witch’s pin,

Find a pretty neck and press it in,

Turn it, and twist it, until you see the red,

In less than a minute, she will fall…down…dead!”

The last line stuck and played over and over. Would Peter have fallen dead if we hadn’t gotten help? It answered itself. He would have. That’s what would have happened; he would have kept on bleeding until… Daryld shook his head to drive away the rest, Peter was staring at him, but Daryl's mind started wandering again. The police, he thought, we should go to the police and tell them the whole story as crazy as it is. The bleeding might get their attention and make them take the whole thing seriously. Daryl shook his head, while he and Peter continued to stare at one another. They won’t believe that it has anything to do with the rhyme. Coincidence; that’s what they’ll decide, or maybe they’ll think that Peter is doing all this to himself. I thought that once. Did he? One thing is certain, he couldn’t have done the ones on the doors…

“What are you thinking about?” Peter asked. “You should see your face. It’s almost scary. You’re just standing there and staring at me.”

Daryl hurried over to the bed. “I’m sorry.” He kissed Peter and Peter kissed him back. For the moment Peter couldn’t have cared less who saw; he just wanted and needed the contact. It anchored him back to reality.

When they separated, Daryl, his face still close to Peter’s, looked him firmly in the eyes, “When they release you, we’re going to your place, gather whatever you need, and bringing it to the brownstone. No argument this time. I’m not leaving you alone in that apartmenty.” He held up a finger in front of a fierce face.

Peter blinked, smiled, and laughed. “I’m so glad. I don’t want to be alone. Bless you, Daryl.”

They kissed again, and then Daryl pulled a green visitor’s chair over to the bed.

They talked for a bit about how much Peter should bring with him. “Bring as much as we can carry. Another day we’ll go back for the rest.”

Peter only hesitated a moment. “I know that this is happening at a crazy time,” he grabbed one of Daryl’s hands, “but I swear to God, Daryl. That’s only the catalyst. I don’t want to live anywhere but with you.”

Daryl grabbed Peter’s wrist with his free hand and said in a voice that only Peter could hear, “You little fuck; it’s about time.” He squeezed his hand as Dr. Nyugen walked into the room and didn’t let go.

“Mr. McDonnell, how are you doing?”

“I feel great,” Peter said.

“You should, we gave you two bags of our Grade A best.” He chuckled, “Dracula would kill for it.”

Daryl laughed too.

Dr. Nyugen took Peter’s wrist and looked at his watch. “Nice and regular,” he decided after a few seconds. “Do you have any idea how you got that tiny wound?”

Peter shook his head. “No, Daryl and I were just outside his brownstone when the bleeding started.”

“So peculiar,” Dr. Nyugen said. “Our tests don’t show a single thing wrong with you, so we’re going to discharge you, but I want you to make an appointment with your primary care physician, Dr. Lee. I contacted him about this event, so he’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

“I want to get him some clean clothes,” Daryl said. “Do I have time to quickly go and get them?”

Dr. Nyugen nodded. “It will be at least an hour before the discharge nurse comes and has a little conversation with Peter. We don’t want him to do anything that requires exertion for the next 24 hours. No lifting anything heavy. We don’t want you back here because you popped those stitches we gave you.”

There was a pause and then Dr. Nyugen said, “Do you have any questions for me, Mr. McDonnell?”

Peter looked at Daryl and then back at Dr. Nyugen, “Yes, I have one question. Did you find anything inside the wound on my neck?”

“No. After we stopped the bleeding, we took pictures of your neck, and we didn’t find anything. We also sent your blood to the lab and got back the results. Nothing was surprising in your blood results,” Dr. Nyugen said with a wink, “that there must be some incredible gigantic mosquito that bit you.” Then he got serious. “We have people come into emergency with mysterious conditions, but I have to say Mr. McDonnell that yours was up there with the most puzzling.”

Peter was about to ask whether the Doctor thought it could happen again, but he realized that the doctor wouldn't have an answer. He couldn't say whether it would happen again when no one in the medical community understood why it had happened in the first place.

Daryl might have felt the same, because he said, “I’m going to get your clean clothes, Peter. I’ll be very quick.”

“Take your time,” Dr. Nyugen said, “discharge always takes longer than you would anticipate.” He put you a hand to Peter, “It’s nice meeting you and let’s hope that this crazy event never happens again.”

“Absolutely,” said Peter, “thank you for everything. It seems lik you and the staff here saved my life.”

Dr. Nyugen smiled and patted Peter’s hand. “Take care,” he said and then turned to Daryl. “Nice meeting you.”

“You as well.”

Dr. Nyugen left Peter’s room and Daryl walked to the foot of the bed. He put his hand on the blankets and felt Peter’s toes underneath. He held them for a moment. “Please don’t do anything dramatic while I get your clothes.”

Peter’s eyes traveled around his room, “I’ll do my best. I can’t believe how long this day is.”

“I can,” said Daryl. “Be back soon.”

He left the room and looked for a way to return to the waiting room and leave the hospital. To the left he saw an exit sign and arrow and followed it. It went around a bend and, when he followed it, the next sign said, Emergency Waiting Room. There were a few more turns, but he reached his destination and found himself facing the Security Guard’s shielded desk and, to his side, the receptionist. He nodded to her in a friendly way and she nodded back as the automatic door opened, and Daryl felt the fresh air of October on his face. For a moment he stood, getting his bearings, and remembering where he’d parked his car. As he started in that direction, he was distracted by a face staring through the Emergency Waiting Room window. Daryl stopped and turned. It was a man, dark- haired and with a dusky compexion. It’s him! The guy I saw coming into the waiting room when I was following the Security Guard.

The man continued to stare. His face was expressionless but intense, and he didn’t look away even with Daryl staring back.

What the hell is with this guy? Is this another crazy mystery on top of those fucking Patty Cake rhymes?

And then, in an instant, Daryl was furiously angry. He turned and walked with purpose back to the automatic door that opened into the Emergency Waiting Room. Daryl had no plan other than to ask the man why he was staring at him.

The door opened, and Daryl walked into the room.

“You need to wear a mask, sir,” the receptionist called. Daryl grabbed the proffered mask and fitted the cords around his ears and hands shaking with repressed anger.

There, he thought, as he got the mask on. He turned into the room and quickly scanned the seats next to the window. Where the hell is he?

Daryl stood in the middle of the Emergency Waiting Room and ran his eyes along the faces of the people seated at the window. He was oblivious of what he looked like to others. He had become the strange man staring from person to person. And then, the Security Guard was next to him.

“Excuse me. Are you looking for someone?”

Daryl decided to share, “Yeah. I was here before. You escorted me to the Green area.”

“I remember,” said the Guard.

“This is going to sound stupid, but when you coded that door, some guy came into the Waiting Room and stood in the doorway staring at me. Just now, when I was leaving, he was at the window staring at me again. So I came back to ask him why he was doing that.” Daryl scanned the room again, “But it looks like he went off somewhere.”

“People get weird when someone they care about comes here. I wouldn’t put any importance to that guy. He might even be here to see a doctor.”

Daryl nodded, “Yeah. I hadn’t thought about that. It makes a lot of sense. Anyway, I’m sorry if I was acting a little suspiciously.” Daryl shook the man’s hand and left.

As he walked to the car, and despite the Security Guard’s words, he couldn’t get the man’s face, or the way he had stared, from his mind. There was only one word for the expression on the man’s face. It was menacing.

Chapter 12

Both Daryl and Peter had keys to each other’s home, so Daryl had gotten into Peter’s apartment and found one of Peter’s suitcases in the hall closet. He moved to the bedroom and thoughtfully picked out the clothes Peter would wear to school along with liesure wear, underpants, pharmaceuticals, and other necessities.

“Boy, it doesn’t take much to fill a suitcase,” Daryl said aloud to himself. He suddenly realized that he had spoken aloud. It was not something he generally did, but he knew why he did it now. He didn’t like being in the apartment alone. “Too many crazy things going on,” he said, aloud once again. Daryl closed the suitcase and made a last tour of the rooms in the apartment. “I wonder if Peter is currently reading anything.” Both men were readers and sometimes read the same book as a pseudo book club so they could discuss them when they were done. “Should I call Peter at the hospital? No! Let me just get back to him. I’ve got plenty of books that he hasn’t read yet. Shit, I’m still talking out loud.”

Daryl shivered a little and spoke again, “Easy does it counselor. Keep that famous cool.” Daryl hefted the suitcaase and said, “On to the hospital.” He froze. Was he losing it? For a moment, it sounded as though his words echoed back at him the way they might have done if he’d emptied the entire apartment leaving tired walls and hollow floors.

“Asshole,” Daryl scolded himself and left. When he locked the apartment door, he stood a moment and stared at the closed door. What am I looking for? More writing? Daryl felt like an idiot and shook his head. “I’m out of here,” he said, once again speaking out loud. He headed for the elevator. Once the doors had opened and he was inside the coffinesque box, Daryl felt better. He pressed the “1” button and felt relief as the elevator headed down to the lobby. It stopped moving and Daryl stepped forward. The door didn’t open. Daryl leaned to the right and pressed the button with the triangles that symbolized “Open.” The elevator shuddered, but the doors didn’t open. Daryl pressed the button again, but the door still didn’t open. I have two options here. I can press the red alarm button and summon help, or I can try to see if the elevator will respond to going up to the second floor. If it does that, and the door will open, I can walk down the stairs to the lobby and report the elevator problem.

He made a decision and pressed the number “2” button. The elevator responded at once and took him to the second floor. This time the doors opened automatically. As Daryl stepped out, he realized that his heart was racing. That damn ‘Patty Cake,’ he thought, An elevator has a mechanical problem and I’m already thinking of that fucking poem. He hurried for the staircase. Before anything else happens.

He got down to the lobby and reported his problem with the elevator to the lobby guard. The guard thanked him, and Daryl hurried out of the building with the suitcase.

He had been lucky enough to park his car at a free meter, and as he approached it he saw, with a jolt, that he’d gotten a ticket. It was yellow and secured by one of his windshield wipers.

"Shit!” Daryl muttered. He yanked the ticket off and turned it over to see how much it was going to cost him. He froze. There was no information on the other side. Instead there were these words:

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, two men in a bed,

They seek for pleasure but find sin in-stead.

Kissing and rubbing and breaking the code,

Patty Cake laughs as they venture down that road.”

Daryl took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The hand that held the ticket was shaking. Daryl looked at it and willed it to stop. It slowly obeyed, more due to his calming his breathing that any mental command. He examined the ticket. Had someone who knew about ‘Patty Cake’ written the verse and pasted it over the other side of the ticket. Daryl picked at the ticket, but there was no extra layer to it, He turned it over it had the official New York parking ticket information printed on it. He turned it over, and there was the verse. An achine awareness of the heavy suitcase in his left hand brought him out of his reverie. He stuffed the paper in his pocket, Just in case it turns back into a real ticket, and got into his car.

As he drove back to the hospital, Daryl worried about the time he’d lost between the elevator and the ticket. He had to admit that he’d been frightened in the elevator, but he wasn’t frightened now. Maybe he would be again, but not now. Now he was fucking angry.

Chapter 13:

Daryl was fortunate to find a parking space in the Emergency Parking lot. This was near to the doors that patients were wheeled to when they were discharged.

Daryl had to go back to the Emergency Waiting Room, since Peter had never been admitted to the hospital. As the doors opened, he pulled out the face mask that the receptionist had given him and clapped the rubber bands around his ears. The receptionist smiled approval and Daryl went directly to the Security Guard’s kiosk.

The Guard nodded remembrance and called into the Emergency Room. It took a few minutes before he got someone and was told that Daryl could enter.

“Think you can find your way?” the Guard asked.

“Yah. Green Zone,” Daryl answered. “Thanks.”

The Guard nodded, got up and typed in the door code and let him inside.

Daryl followed the signs and after a few wrong turns, found Peter’s room. His tranfusion line had been removed and he was sitting up on the bed.

“I was worried that something happened,” Peter said. “Did it?”

Daryl had to think fast. Let’s see what had gone wrong? The echoing apartment, The Elevator, The Parking Ticket with the ‘Patty Cake’ verse. Yeah something had happened, Daryl thought, but he answered. “Naw. It just took me a little time to decide what to pack.” Daryl closed the door to Peter’s cubicle and pulled the curtains to block out the rest of the Emergency Room.

“Are you all discharged?” he asked Peter.

“Yes, and they’ve sent for transportation. Someone will be coming with a wheelchair. I’m okay to get dressed.”

“Yeah, good, but I think I’ll still dress you. The doctor said no straining.” Peter stood up, his cheeks a little pink. Daryl went around Peter’s back and with two quick unlackings dropped the blue hospital gown to the floor leaving Peter naked. Daryl took a pair of briefs out of the suitcase. “I only found these little underpanties,” he chuckled. Peter tried to grab them, but Daryl pulled them aside. “Step into them,” he said as if dressing a kid, “and daddy will pull them up.” Peter couldn’t help but laugh as the briefs slid up his legs. “And I’ll undress you when I get you home.” Daryl grinned lasciviously as he very slowly finished the briefs journey all the way up.

By the time Peter was in street clothes and Daryl had stuffed the plastic bag with his bloody clothes in the suitcase, there was a knock at the door. Daryl pulled aside the curtain and opened the door. There was a nice looking nurse with a wheelchair. “Hi. I’m Peter McDonnell, and this is Daryl Cooper.”

“Nice to meet you both.” She pointed to her name tag. “I’m Muriel. I’ll be taking you down.” She turned to Daryl. “Are you driving Mr. McDonnell home?”

“Yes. I’m parked right in the emergency parking lot.”

Muriel suggested that Daryl pull his car right up to the double doors that led to the hospital.

“I’ll be wheeling Mr. McDonnell to the hospital exit. That what we do with patients discharged from Emergency. You’re in the right parking lot, just pull up to the big double doors. You can’t miss them.”

“I know the doors you mean,” Daryl said. He turned to Peter, “I’ll be waiting.”

“Thanks,” Peter said.

Daryl made his way through the maze of colored sections till he found the sign directing him to the Emergency Waiting room. He waved to the Security Guard and thanked him and nodded to the receptionist as he left the Emergency Waiting Room to get his car. He paused outside for a moment, rememberng something, and scanned the few faces looking out of the Emergency Waiting Room window. No, he didn’t see the face of that man. Daryl had a weird feelihng of being watched, and turned around looking at people getting in and out of cars and going in and out of the double hospital doors that were only a few steps from Emergency Room. None of the faces were familiar. It’s ridiculous to let one person’s face spook you. He said to himself. But he also answered, If it continues to spook you maybe it’s not so ridiculous?

* * *

Although the doors to the Emergency Room and Hospital were so close together on the outside that you could walk from the Emergency Waiting Room to the hospital doors in seconds, Emergency Room patients could not be taken outside through the Emergency Waiting Room, because the powers that be didn’t want them to be exposed to whatever illnesses lurked in that space.

Muriel had to wheel Peter through a series of different color zones to an elevator. They got off on the second floor and then traveled through a passage with windows on both sides to another elevator that took them back down to the first floor where they couuld see the hospital doors and the hospital’s Pharmacy. The hospital doors didn’t lead directly outside. There was a small space where people could wait in case of rain. As they entered this space, Peter saw a woman leaning against the wall and staring at him. She was smiling, but the smile was all wrong. The woman might have been any age because the smile forced her face into a web of lines. Her eyes were opened very wide and as Muriel moved toward the second set of doors that actually led outside, the woman’s head turned as she continued to stare. Peter didn’t know what to do. He felt it would be weird to Muriel’s attenton to the woman and yet he felt that there was something seriously wrong. The doors to the outside opened automatically. Peter could see Dylan’s standing outside of his car and waiting with a very differnet king of smile. For a last second, Peter turned to see if the woman was still watching and smiling. She was and she hadn’t changed her position, but her neck had stretched to accomodate this.

It’s too long! Peter thought, but then he was through the doors and Dylan was hurring up to the chair.

“Thank you, Muriel for bringing this character down here.”

“My pleasure,” Muriel said. She stood by and held Peter’s arm to make sure that he was stead on his feet. Peter felt steady and wanted to look back and see if the woman was still there so he could point her out to Dylan, but he lost his chance as both Muriel and Dylan manhandled him into the passenger seat of Dylan’s car. Unnecessarily, Dylan leaned across Peter, kissing him on the nose as he did, and strapped him in the seat. Peter’s face turned red as he saw Muried still smiling as she watched this. Looking at Muried, Peter was now able to see into the hospital doors. The woman was gone.

Chapter 14 of "Patty Cake"

Peter was quiet as Dylan drove out of the emergency parking lot, carefully steering around double-parked cars with passengers getting out and people pushing wheel chairs across the lot.

Dylan finally escaped the lot and pulled out into the comparative ease of Manhattan traffic.

“Do you feel set free from prison?” Dylan asked.

“I do,” Peter answered, his voice dull and distracted.

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

Peter looked at Dylan, "Do you remember The Twilight Zone?”

“Of course,” Dylan said. “I still hunt out my favorite episodes. The one about a town called Willoughby is top of my list. Remember that one?”

Peter nodded. “It was a good episode. I wish we had a Willoughby to escape to. I feel like we’re living in a very different kind of Twilight Zone episode, maybe ‘The Monsters are Due on Maple Street.’” Peter looked out the window and then back at Dylan. “I didn’t tell you something. When Muriel was pushing me out of the hospital, and we were between the two sets of exit doors, I saw this strange woman staring at me. She was standing in the middle space between the two doors, and had this menacing expression on her face. Then, as we moved toward the second set of doors, her head turned, and her eyes followed me . Her neck stretched as she turned; it didn’t look normal.”

“Like the kid in The Exorcist?” Dylan grinned, he was trying to make light of the episode; it didn’t work.

“It wasn’t funny,Dylan. When I got in the car, I looked out the window to see if she was still there, so I could point her out to you, but she was gone.”

Dylan thought about the strange man at the Emergency Waiting Room. Peter looks freaked out about that woman, and why not? This is all crazy, and disturbing, but we can’t start holding things back from each other. We both need to know what we’re dealing with if we're ever going to figure this out. “Peter, I had a similar experience.” He told Peter about the man at the Emergency Room door and window.

Peter sighed and pushed back in his seat. “I think we need to do more research. The man who wrote the play and the Patty Cake verse? Maybe he didn’t actually create Patty Cake. People almost never make things up. They usually get their ideas from some source: a book, something they remember, an experience, a song someone sang. It might even come from something religious.:"

"Tomorrow is Monday,” Dylan said. “I think you should take a sick day so your wound has more time to heal. You can relax and do whatever research you want."

Peter shook his head, “Unless this thing,” he touched his bandage, “starts bleeding before tomorrow morning, I’m going to work. I want to ask our tech guy, Mike Phelan, if he would do a little research for me. He knows all the special search engines to use depending on what you are looking for. I want Mike to see if he can find any source material for Thomas D’Urfey’s Patty Cake.”

Dylan nodded. “It’s a good idea, Peter, but if there is even a trace of staining on that bandage, I’m going to spread eagle you to the bed.”

“I might like that,” Peter grinned. Dylan was glad to see that. It felt like a return to normalcy.

“We can do that anytime you’d like,” Dylan said arching an eyebrow, “and while you are hogtied, some dashingly handsome character can sneak into the Brownstone and ravish the hell out of you.”

They reached the Brownstone and spent nearly an hour waiting for a parking space to open up.

“I want to write down eveything that’s happened since you heard those kids,” Dylan said, “and I’ll need your help. Maybe we’ll discover a pattern or....” Dylan stopped and tapped his hand against his steering wheel.

“What?” Peter asked. "What are you doing? Why did you stop?"

Dylan looked at Peter and said, “Look. I'm an attorney. I deal with facts. Part of me discards any consideration of the supernatural. I think you’ve got an enemy out there, Peter, and a very clever one."

“What about the door?” Peter countered. “How could someone pull that off?”

Dylan shrugged, “I don’t know, maybe it was a projection of some kind, something digital, maybe.”

“But it was on the of inside of your door as well as the outside. How could someone do that?”

“Look, this is going to sound like a huge stretch, but if there is some fucking nut bag out there with a huge grudge against you, and who also happens to be a tech wizard, they would find a way. Do you know anyone who hates you enough to do that?”

Peter was quiet, thinking who hated him enough to pull off something so elaborate. Jim Kellen occured to him. “There’s this incredibly lazy teacher that I am either going to straighten out or put on probation. Right now I'm meeting with him and doing classroom observations. The teachers' reprenatives have already received a complaint from him.

“What?” Dylan said. “What’s his complaint?”

“He’s claiming that I’m harrassing him.”

Dylan said, “Asshole! If Kellen's an atrocious sleaze, he probably knows other sleazy characters. Oh look!” A car pulled out from a spot. He shot over, in true Manhattanite style to take the space. “Maybe this guy is involved andmaybe not. Maybe it’s somebody you would never suspect. We’re going to make some lists.”

They exited the car and headed up the steps. “The door’s clean,” Dylan said, “that’s something.”

Peter nodded, “Ssh. Don’t say that or we’ll walk in and find something scrawled all over your beautiful living room.”

“If there is, you’re in big trouble,” Dylan growled. He unlocked the front door, joking now about what they might find inside, “Footprints on the ceiling, blood in the bathtub, and someone’s ear in the refrigerator.” When the door opened and they looked around, they were relieved to see nothing in the living room, on the ceiling and later, nothing in the bathroom or refrigerator.

Dylan looked at his watch, “How about we order in? It’s getting kind of late to start cooking.” The men decided on Chinese food and looked through Dylan’s binder of take out menus. They decided on Ruby Foo’s Kitchen, an old favorite with an excellent menu. They over-ordered as usual, but Peter legitimatized it by saying, “There’ll be plenty left over for another meal.”

“Classic rationale,” Dylan said, as he called in the order.

Good spirits were restored over wanton soup, spareribs, shrimp toast, pork dumplings, fried rice, Peking Duck, spring rolls, and that good old standard, Chow Mein. Both men leaned back in their chairs, opened their belts and groaned.

“That was perfect,” Peter moaned.

“Perfect,” Dylan repeated and “Pardon me,” as he belched.

Both men were wonderfully drowsy from the carbs they’d consumed, but rolled to the sofa and started season two of “A Discovery of Witches” for an hour.

“Does a shower wash off calories?” Peter said hopefully.

“Only if you scrub off your complete epidermis,” Dylan said. “But don’t worry. After I shower, we’ll do some acrobatics in bed, and we’ll both feel fit again.”

When both men were clean, they engaged in some interesting acrobatics, as Dylan had said they would, and drifted into sleep in each other’s arms.

Peter had reached the wonderous stateof Hypnagogia, where his mind wandered freely. Vaguely, he was aware of a feeling of peaceful freedom until a face flashed into this peaceful state. It was only a shocking second, but if Peter was not already in a state of sleep paralysis, he would have cried out in fear. It was so fast and disappeared so quickly that Peter couldn’t have said if it were male of female; it seemed possible that it was both at the same time. The only thing he could be sure of was that it was more terrible that any nightmare he’d ever had. Its eyes were large and wide, it’s gaze fixed on him. Then it was gone, and Peter fell down a rabbit hole into the next sleep stage where visions came and went, but none of them came near the shock of that face or filled his mind with the words Patty Cake.

Chapter 15

When Peter woke the next morning, he slipped carefully out of bed so as not to wake Dylan and went into the bathroom to check on his bandage. The white had no tinting of red or even pink. Carefully, Peter undid the clamp that held the bandages closed and unwrapped them. There was nothing on his neck. Dylan had a small shaving mirror on a shelf beside the sink. Peter took it and caught the reflection of his neck in the mirror over the sink. He could see the one stitch they’d taken, but that didn’t look swollen or red. How can there have been so much bleeding?

As he stood there, Dylan’s alarm clock went off. It had the same nerve-jangling alarm as Peter’s clock in his apartment. Is my apartment really history now?

Dylan appeared in the bathroom door. He has slipped into a pair of boxers and was smirking and looking the naked Peter over like an auctioneer. “I could make some money off of this,” he says. Peter put down the shaving mirror and knew, right then, that his apartment was history. He moved into Dylan’s open arms.

Dylan believed in breakfasts and ran and exercised hard to deserve them. Peter was a light eater, because he found it hard to make time for a full exercise program.

Dylan looks up from his scrambled eggs, one piece of toast and two slices of bacon to Peter’s tiny container of yogurt. “The faster I get you moved in here, body, soul, and boxes the better. I’m going to get you into a good exercise program that I’ll make fit into your impossible workload. How is it possible that I have to take on cases, do research, prepare briefs and still have time to exercise and you don’t.”

Peter smirks, “Because I have real work to do.”

“You are going to have real work to do, kiddo. I want to set next weekend for us to hit your apartment and get it packed up. I told you I’ve got a moving company lined up. Once you’re packed, they’re ready to back up a truck and move you here.” Dylan got up from the table, pulled Peter up and took him into a warm embrace. “Here, where you belong,” Dylan said. They kissed, and for a moment it felt that this was something that could make them both late for work, so they reluctantly broke apart.

“Tonight,” Dylan said, pointing at Peter.

“Tonight,” Peter said, imitating the gesture.

Dylan’s office was in Manhattan near Grand Central, but Peter’s school was in Bronxville. If he was lucky, it only took him 43 minutes to drive the 18.2 miles along NY-9A North. Dylan drove Peter to the parking garage where he normally kept his car. “Do you have a garage near your Brownstone?” he asked when they arrived.

“Several,” Dylan said, “all scalpers.”

“Better than spending an hour waiting for a spot,” Peter said. “Love you.”

Dylan, who had gotten out of his car when they reached the garage, made a move to embrace Peter again, but Peter shook his head and looked around as if just standing there with Dylan was dangerous enough.

Dylan frowned and took one step closer. “I’m going to help you with this…this fear of exposure. You are a wonderful man; there’s no other truth, and we have nothing, nothing whatsoever to be ashamed of. I love you. Please be careful today and call me if anything crazy starts going on.”

“I will,” Peter promised.

Dylan got back in his car and drove away.

Once Peter had gotten his keys and his car, he drove out of the garage and began his 43-minute commute. Although he was the only passenger in his car, he wasn’t alone. Dylan’s words, and the upcoming plans for the move, stayed with Peter and kept him company in his drive.

Peter made good time. Parking his car in the spots reserved for faculty, Peter thought as he always did when he arrived at the school, how different the air smelled in Bronxville. The campus buildings lived amidst nature and trees and carefully tended gardens. This was one of the reasons, along with the outstanding academic program, (that Peter never stopped fine-tuning) why he and the school were so popular.

Once at his desk, Peter turned on his computer and waited for it to boot up. Then, half fearfully, he opened his email. As per usual, there were already at least fifty correspondences waiting to be read. He checked his watch. It was 7:05. Mike Phelan was in his office by 8:00 a.m., Peter would see how many emails he could get rid of before calling him.

He had almost cleared his mailbox when her called Mike.

“Hey, Peter. Good morning,” came Mike’s always cheerful voice.

“Good morning, Mike. Listen are you free at 11:00? I’d like to stop by and see you for a few minutes. I need your help with some research.”

“Sure, come by, but we might be interrupted. The fifth grade will be using the laptop cart that period, and hopefully they won’t encounter any technical problems. Peter laughed, but he knew how likely it was that at least one student might have an issue that the teachers couldn’t resolve without Mike.

“Okay, I got it. I’ll drop by at 11:00 and hope for the best.

“If we are interrupted, I’ll make it my business to find you later in the day,” Mike said.

“I appreciate that. Have a great morning, and I’ll see you at 11:00.”

When he got off with Mike, Peter remembered that he had to schedule another observation in Jim Kellin’s class. He sent Jim an email letting him know that he’d be coming to visit on Wednesday and would Jim please remember that Peter wanted to see him teaching a lesson. “Hopefully, that will be enough. God knows we’ve talked the issue of his teaching to death already.”

By this time, Peter was waving at arriving teachers as they passed in front of his open office door. One stopped and knocked. It was Helen Schaeffer. She was wearing a smile, but Peter instantly saw that it was a strained one.

What’s this about? Peter wondered, but aloud he said, “Hi, Helen, come on in.”

Helen came into Peter’s office and closed the door.

Glancing at his watch, Peter said, “We have fifteen minutes before the kids start arriving, and you know I like to be out front when they do.”

“I don’t think this will take long,” Helen said and sat on Peter’s sofa. Peter took the seat facing her.

“Peter, I have an uncomfortable feeling about your meeting with Donna and Sybil yesterday.

Helen was hyper-protective of her students, almost to a fault. Peter found himself dreading what he was about to hear.

“Donna was upset after her conversation with you. Well, first she seemed fine, but then she came to me and worried, to the point of tears, that Mr. McDonnell thought she and Sybil had done something wrong.”

“I’m surprised to hear that, because out little meeting ended on a high note, but let’s take care of that,” Peter said. “Why don’t I meet with Donna, or both of the girls, and reassure them, as I did yesterday, that they hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Helen said. “I don’t want Donna to get all upset again. I think it’s best if we just let things settle down for a while.” Helen looked at her watch and stood up. “The children will be arriving in five minutes, and I know you want to greet them.”

“I’m not comfortable with Donna feeling badly. I want to hear what she has to say and reassure her.”

“I’d like to speak to Donna first,” Helen said, “and prepare her for her meeting with you.”

Peter felt angry. I’m not going to let Helen tell me that there’s a little fire going on and then get in the way of my putting it out.

“You talk to Donna, today, but after you do, I’d like to see both of you in my office. I think it will be a good idea if you’re here when I speak to Donna.” He doesn’t add, So there’s no misunderstanding about my message.

This seemed to mollify Helen, and she gives him a weak smile as she left his office. Peter felt disappointed in Helen and also had a strong inkling that she might be talking about this with the other fourth grade teachers.

A new urban legend, Peter thinks, the principal who terrifies his students.

Greeting the children as they arrived was like a tonic The air was bracing and there was a mild breeze that had the tree leaves making what Peter felt was a happy susurration. Adding to his joy were two children who came off of different vans and hurried over to show Mr. McDonnell books they were reading that he had talked about at the last assembly.

When arrivals were over, Peter got a text message from Mary reminding him that he was doing an observation in one of the first-grade classrooms. The Head of the school, Lydia Jameson, expected the heads of each of the three school divisions: elementary, middle and upper to do an observation in every classroom each semester, write up the visit, and meet with the teachers to discuss them and set goals for a return visit if necessary.

Peter had a good faculty and most observations resulted in a positive report. His visit that morning was no exception. Ms. Rodriguez’s use of the white board was creative and the phonics lesson she’d planned was lively and effective. Students were engaged, and she even gave Peter a chance to join in. He left a sticky note on her desk saying, “A joy to behold and thanks for including me.”

He hurried back to his office to write up his classroom observation and finish his report. By the time he finished, it was 11:00 and time to meet with Mike. Mike’s office was the tech center for the Elementary Division of the school. There was a large server and a number of computers in his room over the library Some computers were in the process of being repaired and others displayed various projects that different grades were involved in with Mike’s support.

“Every time I come in here, Mike,” Peter began, “I am reminded of how deeply involved you are with each grade level and how lucky we are to have you.”

Mike was not a praise hound, but he smiled and thanked Peter. “What can I do for our head of school?”

Peter told Mike about the Thomas D’Urfey play from which Patty Cake originated and how some of the kids still played that hand game. He eliminated anything unusual about the verse except for the peculiar second verse with its repitition of ‘prick it and prick it and prick it and prick it.’ “I’ve tried to find out whether Thomas D’Urfey made that up or it has it origin in another source.”

“That is interesting,” Mike said. “Of course you stick a toothpick or something in a cake to see if it’s done, but the number of repetitions in that verse is extreme. It almost sounds…” he paused. “Maybe I’ve seen too many horror movies, but it almost sounds like a spell or a summoning of some kind.”

Peter felt a chill at the words ‘spell’ and ‘summoning.’ He’d not said it to Dylan, but he’d had the same thought.

“I’ll definitely see what I can find,” Mike said. “It might take a little time, but you never know. I’ve got a couple of search engines that are terrific with linguistic searches. I’ll feed it in and let you know what comes up.”

“Great. Thank you.”

Peter literally flew from his meeting with Mike to one of the three fourth grade classes where he was doing a unit on sentence structure which included reading Wind in the Willows which would eventually lead to the class writing their own original story using characters from the book.

Mike finished teaching full of energy, which is how he almost always felt when he taught and, as he headed back to his office, he answered a text message from Mary.

Helen in waiting outside your office with Donna. She says you were expecting her.

Peter texted back; I’m on my way.

Mary responded, Peter, I heard from Jean Hart in 4C that Helen questioned the girls about your meeting with them. They were fine before that, but something in Helen’s questioning upset Donna. Just so you know.

An annoyed Peter typed back, Thanks for the tip.

He entered the office smiling as if Helen and Donna were the two people in the world that he most wanted to see; it was true regarding Donna.

Helen escorted Donna into Peter’s office with an arm around her shoulder. She steered Donna to Peter’s sofa and sits next to her, her arm still around her shoulder.

She looks like she’s driving a car, Peter thought.

“Donna, it’s okay sweetheart for you to tell Mr. McDonnell how you felt about the conversation that you had with him.”

Donna looked shyly at Peter, and Peter smiled to put her at her ease.

“I thought it was a good conversation,” Donna said. She shifted on the couch and Helen lets her arm drop. “Sybil and I even made up a new Patty Cake verse that we want to do for you. Can we do that?”

“Sure, you can. I’d love to hear it.”

“They’ve worked hard on this for you, Mr. McDonnell,” Helen said. “But, Donna, sweetheart, it’s okay to tell Mr. McDonnel what was bothering you.”

Donna looks at her teacher and then at Peter. It seems to Peter that Donna doesn’t seem to know what she’s expected to say.

“Donna, whatever you want to tell me is fine. If anything in our conversation made you uncomfortable, please share it with me and we’ll work it out.”

Donna frowns and looks from Peter to her teacher. “I wasn’t uncomfortable with our conversation, Mr. McDonnell. It was that strange lady that Sybil and I saw afterwards.”

“Strange lady?” Helen said. “Donna, you didn’t tell me that. Was she someone who works at the school?”

“I don’t know,” Donna said. “She had a blue dress like some of the people who work in the dining room wear, but I never saw her in the dining room and neither did Sybil.”

“Did she say anything to you?” Peter asked.

Donna shook her head. “Nuh uh. She wasn’t in the playground. She was all the way down the walk just staring at us. Then Mrs. Shaeffer called us, and we didn’t see her anymore. She looked a little scary.”

Peter felt himself stiffen and took a deep breath. Donna doesn’t need to see me look upset.

“You know what I’m going to do, Donna?” he said. “After we’re done here, I’m going to go down to the dining room and see if I can find our visitor. I’ll bet she was a special helper that Chef Paul called in for the day.”

Donna nodded and then, as if that was enough to make things alright again, she changed the subject, “When can Sybil and I say the new verse for you?”

Peter turned to Helen, “Mrs. Shaeffer why don’t you speak to Ms. Carlisle. Maybe we can do it at arrivals tomorrow morning.”

“That sounds good,” said Helen. She looked much more relaxed.

Peter stood up and Helen and Donna stood too. "You can go back to your P.E. class, Donna,” Helen said.

“Bye, Mr. McDonnell,” Donna said.

Peter saved, “Bye, Donna. Looking forward to hearing that verse.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Helen said. “Honestly, Donna didn’t tell me about any woman. I’m afraid that I assumed it had to do with your conversation.”

“No harm done,” Peter said. “Children can’t always say what frightened them at the moment. I am going to check on that story, right now.”

Helen left and Mary quickly walked in, closing the door behind her.

“Peter, I’m sorry, but Jim Kellen is out there. He says he has to see you right away.”

Peter put one hand to his forehead. This is too much, he thought. He quickly told Mary about the woman Donna and Sybil saw. “Will you call Chef Paul and ask if they had anyone new in yesterday. You can say that two of the children spotted a woman in food service clothing staring at them. They say that she was frightening.”

Mary nodded and said, “Good luck with you know who,” before she left.

Peter held his door open. “Come in, Jim.”

Jim Kellen looked as if his face was carved from marble.

Peter closed the door and glanced at his watch. “We both don’t have a lot of time. It’s almost a quarter to three and you have homebase before dismissal.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Jim launched. “You visited my class on Friday and you’re coming back on Wednesday?!”

Peter took a deep breath before responding. Jim’s face muscles were taught as if he were barely controlling a burst of aner. Peter felt a little like bursting himself.

“Jim, we talked after my Friday observation, didn’t we? I told you that I want to see you teaching an actual lesson not sitting at your computer while the students read. I’m giving you an opportunity to demonstrate that kind of lesson. I don’t think it’s something you can’t do.”

“Of course it isn’t something I can’t do,” Jim repeated. “I am a professional. I’m also training my students to work independently.”

“That’s fine, but the white board had nothing on it. We’ve talked at grade level meetings about putting an aim on the smart board before each lesson, and all the fifth grade teachers, including you, agreed. It’s important for the students to know what their lesson is going to be about; it sets them up mentally. The aim should lead to a discussion of the goals and all of that should be on the smart board. I would expect, as the lesson develops, that there should be more writing on the smart board so that the children also learn to take notes and so that anyone who happens to walk in will know what you’re teaching. That, and you front and center, is what I expect to see on Wednesday. Tell me now if there’s anything that’s not clear about that.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed.

“I use the smart board it in my classroom, and I know you are well versed in the technology. I’ve seen you use it after school.”

“I’ve seen you after school too,” Jim suddenly says. His face wears a smirk, and Peter is chilled by the expression. “I just happened to be coming from lunch this weekend and saw you with a..” he lets a pause linger “…a friend.”

Peter is chilled but then, he is angry. Are you going to let this shit assume something because you’re seen with Dylan?

Peter doesn’t respond, but he lets an expression that says, “So?” linger on his face for a moment. “Look, Jim, I’ve told you a number of times that I’m only interested in your success.”

“Parents request me,” Jim raises his voice.

Peter says nothing.

“Are you bad mouthing me to parents?” Jim asks accusingly.

“Of course not,” Peter says, “but I have to tell you that there are parents who have contacted me independently, because they aren’t satisfied with their children’s level of instruction. Some have also contacted Lydia, and he’s asked me to work it out with you. That means that she doesn’t want to hear any more complaints.”

“I’ve already reported you for harassment,” Jim said. “Maybe there’s something else you should be reported for.”

“Jim, you’d better leave and calm down. I’m not your enemy, but you’re making working with you very difficult.”

Jim got up but before he left the room he said, “I have a lot of friends among the faculty who think I’m doing a fine job and will be eager to say so.”

Peter says nothing, and Jim stalks out of office without closing the door.

Mary appears in the doorway. “His voice wasn’t very low,”she said.

Peter closes the door with Mary inside. “I’m really worried about him. He was very inappropriate at this meeting. I’m going to have to talk to Lydia about what happened here. It’s very likely that he’ll make his own appointment with her, and I’d like to talk with her first.”

“I think that’s a good idea. Jim is a poison pen letter type of guy, and I sometimes think he creates his own reality and then believes it.”

Peter nodded. “I’d like to be at dismissal. Mary, would you mind call Ann and see if she can lock me in for a phone call at about 3:45?”

Ann Leibowitz was Lydia Jameson’s secretary, a wonderful woman who kept the Head’s life as simple as possible.

Peter headed down to dismissal trying to clear Jim from his head, but he wasn’t very successful. He knew, deep inside, that no matter how positive and supportive he was to his faculty, they lived in some suspense where he was concerned. After all, he evaluated them, and as a result even so slimy a character as Jim Kellin could evoke sympathy.

The noise of students at dismissal worked like a charm on Peter. Suddenly surrounded by joyous children being channeled into cars, carpools, and vans put a big smile on his face. As kids called out to him, Peter called back, smiled and waved.

He spotted Donna and Sybil climbing onto one of the vans and Donna called out, “Can we tell you the verse tomorrow, Mr. McDonnell.”

“I’d love to hear it.” He waved as the two disappeared down the aisle to their seats.

When dismissal was over, in a cloud of exhaust fumes and relieved teachers, Peter headed back to his office. Cathy Miller who taught fifth grade and despised Jim, caught up with him and simply said, “You’re doing the right thing. Jim carefully chooses the kids whose parents have influence and showers them with praise and privilege while the other kids are smilingly left in the outfield.”

Peter nodded, and Cathy patted his arm, “I don’t envy you your job,” she said sympathetically.

Peter smiled and said, “I really do want to help Jim to succeed.”

She nodded and before she turned toward her classroom whispered, “You can’t fix everything.”

Mary got up from her desk as soon as Peter came into the outer office, “Lydia’s left for the day. Ann said she has a meeting in the city, but you can call her at 7:30 tomorrow morning; she’ll be in her office.”

Peter thought for a moment. Did he want to do this by phone or in person. Then he thought of the time and arrivals and decided to go with the phone for now. “Bless your heart, Mary. I’ll make the call in the morning. I hope Lydia will actually be at her desk.”

Mary raised her eyebrows in understanding. Lydia was a great Head of School in terms of fund-raising, but she could be flaky about appointments.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mary said. “I spoke to Food Service and Chef Paul said he didn’t have anyone new in yesterday.”

Peter wondered who the woman could have been, but was soon too consumed by emails and two phone calls to worry about it. One call was from Dylan checking in to see how Peter was feeling. He fought an urge to unload the Jim Kellin story but decided to wait until that evening. “Thank you for calling, Dyl. It’s been a challenging day.”

“Just get home to me in one piece,” Dylan said. “Okay?”

Peter wanted to say, “Love you,” but even with his office door closed, he ended with, “Okay. See you later.”

It was 6:00 pm when Peter turned off his computer and gazed at thelist of “Things To Do,” which he kept on a clipboard beside his desk. Nothing on the ‘Immediate’ side of the list, he thought and felt relieved. I can get out of here.

Peter packed up his backpack and left his office just as one of the housekeeping team entered the outer office. It was a very nice woman named Rosalyn Vega. “Have a good evening, Rosalyn,” Peter said.

“You too, Mr. McDonnell,” she emptied a garbage pail into a large black garbage bag.

Peter walked out of the building into the smell of approaching evening. It was moisture settling on the ground and the leaves making them give off the green aroma of chlorophyll. The sun was low in the sky and seemed to be dropping even further as Peter came to the Enchanted Book Forest. He sighed and stepped into its center for a moment of peace, but it was denied. Jim Kellin was sitting on a chair going through a pile of papers resting on his briefcase and held down by a stone. Peter turned quietly, hoping to leave before his presence was discovered, but Jim turned and said, “Wait, please don’t go.” He looked and sounded very different than he had when they’d met.

“I over-reacted in your office,” Jim said. Peter saw that the man’s hands were trembling. “I’m a good teacher, Peter. I love the kids, and I think I can make a good contribution. He paused. “I..get…too defensive. I know that you’re just looking out for the school and me. I really do know that. When you visit on Wednesday, I think you’ll be pleased. I hope so.”

“I’ll be looking for good things,” Peter said. He looked at the pile under the rock. “Marking papers?”

Jim nodded, “I’ve fallen a little behind, but I’m going to make that up.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Peter said. He smiled again and turned to leave the clearing. He took a few steps and heard a low, raspy, unfamiliar voice say, “Faaaguuuuut!”

Peter swiveled around and saw Jim leaning over marking a paper he had resting on a clipboard. Peter stared at the man, but Jim was either a terrific actor, or he really was totally engaged in what he was doing. His face was completely bland.

As Peter felt his heart racing, he thought about the number of times he’d felt like this that day. Silently, and without saying a word or challenging Jim, Peter left the clearing. Did I imagine that voice. No, I heard it. But was it Jim? It didn’t sound like his voice at all. Is Jim Kellin some kind of psycho/dual personality? Peter thought it imminently possible.

Peter emerged onto the driveway leading down to the parking lot. He looked back at the trees, now hiding Jim from view. That low, gutteral voice. It hadn’t sounded anything like Jim’s voice. But if it wasn’t Jim’s voice…? Whose was it?

Peter hurried to his car.

Chapter 16

Peter clicked his car’s remote keyless system automatically, and got in without even realizing he was doing it. His mind remained on Jim Kellin. He was so sincere in his apology, Peter thought. Though you can’t be sure with a person like Jim Kellin. I can easily imagine him leaving the Enchanted Book Forest and calling Judy and Cliff to complain again.

Peter started the car engine and before shifting to drive, he looked back in the direction of the Enchanted Book Forest wondering if Jim Kellin was still there. It was getting a little dim for marking papers, If that was what he was really doing. Still, he really did seem worried about how he acted in the office. Peter pulled out of his spot and drove to the gates of the campus. If he didn’t growl that derisive word, who did? Who did?

Peter focused on the road that led from the campus and up a street until he drove through a section of Bronxville lined with stores. Their lights seemed especially bright as the day became darker. There was something soothing about this strip. The stores with people coming in and out: grocery stores, a pizza parlor, the Bodleian Book Shop. It’s been too long since I spent some time in there. It was a cozy shop run by two women who seemed very attached to one another. Faaaaguttt! Peter shook his head as the moment in the ‘Forest’ returned. Guilty by association, he thought, and shook his head. I don’t know anything about those women. He left the stores behind and hit the Bronx River Parkway, from here he would be on the final stretch into Manhattan. Maybe no one said that word. Maybe I said it to myself. Peter shook his head. Was that what I thought Jim was thinking?

There was something about the Bronx River Parkway and how it spun its way between trees and under arched foot bridges that always made Peter feel calm. Jim Kellin got tossed aside, Maybe into the Bronx River, Peter giggled. His thoughts moved to his apartment. I’ll stop there before the Brownstone and start a list of what I want to bring to Dylan’s brownstone. His place is so tidy with everything in its place. I wonder if I need to really bring anything except my clothes, some books, music, truly favorite DVD’s….what else? I don’t want to ruin Dylan’s place with clutter.

The drive to Manhattan seemed to happen as if the car drove itself. Peter’s body did the work, part of his mind knew the way so well that it took care of driving the car, and the rest of his brain made an almost finished list of essentials.

Peter pulled into his garage and thought, I’ve got to make an arrangement with the garage near Dylan’s brownstone. I don’t want to pay for another month. It was nearly 7:00, and the sun was diving into the west, as Peter entered the lobby of his building. He paused at his mailbox and that’s when he saw her. There was a woman crouched in the shadows under the staircase that led to the second floor. Peter squinted in an effort to see the woman. He had never paid much attention to the space under the stairs before; the elevator which was on the wall behind him was his usual focus.

The lobby isn’t dark, but the space under the stairs is…is totally dark. The only thing he really could see of the woman was her very bright eyes and glints of her teeth as her lips pulled away from them.

She must be homeless, Peter thought. She must have trouble getting people to give her money or clothes or food. She…she’s repulsive. She was repulsive, although Peter felt ashamed for thinking that. Her eyes were large and bright, but not at all attractive. They seemed to bulge with intensity. And her mouth is all wrong. Why does she keep showing her teeth in that way. Peter bit his lower lip. He was angry with himself. Of course she’s repulsive, he reasoned, she’s living in the street. What did that do to a person over time. The poor woman has to seek shelter under a staircase. It’s terribly sad.

Ashamed of how she made him feel, Peter decided to do something positive. If you give a homeless person money, you don’t know what they do with it. I’ll get her some food and some coffee.

Without collecting his mail, Peter left the building and hurried to a popular deli on the corner. In the deli, Peter bought two different sandwiches, ham and cheese and chicken salad; they both came with pickles. He also bought an apple and an orange and two large coffees.

When he got back to the lobby, the lights were flickering on and off. Peter hefted his bag of groceries and tried to see the woman under the staircase. With the lights flickering, the space under the stairs was a complete well of shadow. As the lights continue to flicker, Peter moves away from the mailboxes and toward the space under the stairs. He wonders if he should call out to the woman. How would he do that? What would he say? Finally, bent at the waist and peering into the dark, Peter says, “Are you still there, ma’am? I have some food for you.” There is no answer.

Peter turns away from the stairwell and looks toward the elevator. I don’t think it would be a good idea to use the elevator. What if the lights go out completely…? Oh shit. There they go. Now the only light in the lobby came from the flashing light from a Dumbo’s Burger take out across the street. My cell phone, Peter thinks. He takes out the phone and manages to find the flashlight app. He taps it on and to his surprise it begins to flicker. Just like the lights in the lobby. What the fuck. I wonder how far the power outage goes. He looks across the street where Dumbo’s continues to blink a welcome to burger aficionados.

Peter’s cell flashlight, continued to blink, but it stayed on long enough for him to get back to the mailboxes and where the staircase began. Then his phone went dark, and the only dependable light was the flashing Dumbo’s sign. Peter looked at the take-out across the street and leaned against the mailboxes. His heart was racing, and he was panting. An anxiety attack, he thinks. I’m having an anxiety attack. I have to take some deep breaths and focus on the staircase banister when the light flashes, so I can get across the foyer. A small voice said, Just get out of the building and get to the Brownstone. But a stubborn part of him fought against giving him in his mission. And the lights might come back on any minute.

The light blinked several times while Peter tried to create a straight line between his eyes, his hands and the stair banister. I don’t want to rush across the hall only to trip and possible hurt myself badly.

There she is!

The woman had appeared once again. In the almost split second timing of the ‘light-to-dark-to-light-to dark’ of the Dumbo light, Peter saw that the homeless woman hadn’t left the lobby at all. He sasw her wide eyes and her teeth. But what? She seemed to be almost flat to the floor as if the woman had made herself into a carpet.

Peter put down the bag and with one foot and pushed it toward the eyes and teeth. “I..I..bought..you… some…food..and some…coffee.” Peter put his hand to his chest and struggled to control his breathing. He wasn’t being successful especially since the woman had gone from a disturbing figure under a staircase to this thing on the floor. She’s terrifying…I have to face it. Forget the staircase. Get out of… His thoughts were cut off as a skeletal hand emerged with another flash of light and pulled his bag into the darkness.

Peter heard the impossibly loud sound of the shopping bag being torn apart. It sounded violent somehow almost as if the bag were a fragile living thing. Then Peter put his hand to his mouth. I’m going to be sick. Right here. In the lobby. There was a gnashing and astonishing sound of teeth grinding and the gurgling of a throat. Peter imagined the sandwiches shoved into those gleaming teeth that cruely masticated and ground it and sent it down a convulsing gullet that made a sound like a human garbage disposal unit..

Peter seized on a moment of light and took a step toward the front door, but that single step was all he took. A hand seized his ankle. It held him as a steel manacle might. Peter gasped and without thinking kicked out with his free foot. The result was only that the grip tightened and Peter screamed. It felt as if that grip on his ankle had turned to fire. He kicked out again the pain in his captive ankle adding panic-driven force to it. There was a shriek from the darkness, and Peter’s foot was released. At the same time there was strange sound of movement. A clicking and clattering as though a dozen crabs were scuttling across the floor. Dumbo’s light seems brighter and lasts longer as Peter sees the bright eyes and the teeth. The eyes are red and the teeth are chomping at the air. They are still low to the floor, but they have moved across the lobby to the staircase. The light blinks off and in the moment of darkness, Peter hears a repeat of the clicking and a kind of grinding as if bones were breaking or forming new joints. When there is a moment of light, Peter falls back against the mailboxes again; he has forgotten about the door. What he sees makes him weak and he is unaware that he is slipping down the wall. He sees the woman’s entire body. She is emaciated, skeletal, and dressed in rags that give him a glimpse of pendulous, exposed breasts and impossibly jointed limbs. She is an impossibility. A sort of human spider. Her hands – Are there more than two? -dig their nails into the wall beside the stairs. The woman has left the floor behind and has scuttled straight up the wall. Darkness. And then light again. Peter’s mouth opens, but only in a silent scream. He sees her on the ceiling, high over his head above the second-floor landing. As Peter stares the woman utters a cry of her own, and hers is far from silent. It is a high, grinding shriek that sounds as if it were a strange demand. At once, the ceiling opens like an inverted well, and she scramble up into it. Peter drops to the floor and now one wail after another rips from his throat; the only outlet for what he has seen.

Later, Peter would remember the entire event as a horrible series of images flashing one after the other like the lights in the Dumbo’s Burger’s sign. Somehow Dylan is beside him, and he is now sitting on the staircase. The lights are back on and there are EMT’s filling the lobby and respectfully shooing tenants, alerted by Peter’s screams, back into their apartments. “It’s okay folks. Everything under control here.”

The EMT’s had fitted Peter with a facemask oxygen ventilation cone, wrapped him in a heated blanket, and attached a blood pressure cuff to his arm. Dylan sat near, but left room for the EMT’s to do their work. One of the EMT’s spoke with Peter.

“You’re okay, Peter. You’ve been in a little shock, but you’re okay. Do you remember what happened here?”

A series of images crowded Peter’s mind as he looked at the EMT and put together a version of the events. As he did, he was aware of one of the EMT’s watching the blood pressure device which pumped his arm at intervals.

“There was a homeless woman sheltering under the stairs.” He told them about getting her the food at the Deli and how the lights were flickering but went out completely when he came back. He omitted how the woman had looked pressed to the floor and told them, instead, how she had taken the food, climbed up the stairs and disappeared onto the second floor.

“She was a very odd-looking woman and in the dark she made strange sounds, with the food, and when she moved. I think, by the sounds she made, that her body must have been deformed, but it was hard to see. Going up the stairs she used her hands and legs in very peculiar ways, and then she just sort of slipped into the shadows up there.” Peter gestured to the second floor.

One of the EMT’s went up the stairs to see if a woman was there.

“She took the food,” Peter added, “and just seemed to push it into her mouth making…I don’t know…choking sounds, I think, as she ate it.”

“I think we’ve got enough of the story,” the EMT listening to Peter said. “I just want you to concentrate now on breathing and don’t think about her. Can you do that?”

Peter nodded although he wondered if he’d ever stop thinking about her.

The EMT who had gone to check on the second floor came down. She was a young woman with red hair, “She isn’t on the second floor unless she lived up there or someone took her in. Shall I check further?”

There was a policeman who said, “No, I’ll check on the other floors.” He was tall and took long steps that had him disappearing quickly up to the second floor.

The EMT who had listened to Peter’s story, said, “We want to take you to the hospital and keep you there for observation. The doctors will decide if they want to keep you overnight.”

Peter took off the oxygen cone. “No! No thank you. I decline the offer. I’m really feeling fine now, and I’ll be much better off at home.”

Dylan said, “I’ll be with him. If he’s having any trouble at all, I’ll bring him to the Emergency Room right away.”

They told him he had the right to refuse, but there was a brief effort to convince Peter to go to the hospital. Peter politely and with a smile, declined and thanked them. Dylan echoed his appreciation, and added that he would call 911 if he didn’t think he could take Peter to the Emergency Room safely.

As the EMT monitoring the blood pressure, unwrapped it from Peter’s arm, the other EMT’s got their equipment together. The police officer stepped out of the elevator. “No sign of the woman he described. She must have gone into one of the apartments.” The officer looked down at Peter and said, “How are you feeling pal?”

“Much better, thanks,” Peter said.

The policeman nodded, “We’ve seen some very unfortunate and disturbing people living on the street or sometimes not living on the street. They find ways into buildings. It’s a sad story. You take care of yourself.” He vanished into the night. Before the EMT’s left, the one who had spoken to Peter asked one more time if he was absolutely sure he didn’t want to come with them.

“Thank you,” Peter said and shook his head.

When the team was gone, Dylan took over. “You’ll leave your car here, and I’ll drive you home.”

Dylan escorted Peter to his car, holding his arms and walking very slowly. He asked repeatedly if Peter was okay and Peter said, “I’m fine now, honestly. How did you know where I was? Did you call the EMT’s?”

Dylan pursed his lips, “Of course I knew where you were. When you weren’t at home, I knew you must have gone to your place. I tried to call you, but your phone was dead.”

“It went off shortly after the power in the building.”

“That’s crazy; there’s no connection between a PG&E power failure and the battery of your cell phone.”

“It still went out,” Peter said quietly.

“When I got there, you were sitting on the stairs and you were in shock.”

They reached the car and Dylan helped Peter into the passenger seat as though he had come from an operation. Once he had him strapped in and was strapped in himself, he reached out one hand and grabbed Peter’s hand and held it tightly for a few seconds. Then he continued his story, “When I saw you…the way you were… I called 911. Boy, were they fast, thank the gods. All of them.”

“I didn’t tell the EMT’s everything,” Peter said quietly.

Dylan hadn’t yet started the car; he was waiting.

“The woman didn’t just come out from under the stairs and walk up to the second floor.” And slowly he began to recreate his experience and more exactly what he had seen.

“Jesus Christ!” Dylan said. “What kind of sad freak was that woman?” Dyland shook his head and abruptly changed the subject. “When we get home, you’re getting into bed, Mister. I’ve got dinner for us, it’s take-out Italian this time. Maybe tomorrow shit won’t hit the fan and we’ll actually cook a meal.”

Peter looked at Dylan and said, “Tell me the truth, Dyl. Do you believe what I told you about that woman?”

“Of course I do. If you tell me, I believe you.”

“You don’t believe it,” Peter said quietly. “I know you don’t. You’re a lawyer; you believe in facts. That’s what you did when the words appeared on your door. You thought about it until you worked out a possible, rational theory.”

“Our door,” Dylan corrected. “I believe you, Peter; absolutely. I believe it was exactly what you say it was.”

“Not ‘exactly,’” Peter said, and Dylan drove them to the brownstone.

When they got there, Dylan didn’t even try to find a spot; he went into the parking garage and paid the rip-you-off price. Then he took Peter’s arm, guided him up the stairs, unlocked the door, took his mail from the mail slot, and guided Peter into the warmth of the Brownstone.

“I turned the heat up before I went to your apartment,” Dylan said.

Later, when Peter was in bed and Dylan was warming up the take-out that they would eat in the bed despite the red, red sauce, he opened one of the letters and dropped it on the floor. A card had fallen out and on it was another “Patty Cake.”

Chapter 17

Dylan picked up the card and held it open. He licked his lips as if he were going to read aloud but didn’t.

After he read it, he thought, There is no way that I’m going to show this to Peter. And for just a moment he was going to squash into a ball and hide it in a pocket of one of his jackets. He paused and turned his head in the direction of the bedroom. We agreed not to do that. If there are warnings in these fucking verses, then we both need to know them if only to be on our guard.

Dylan slipped into his office and made a copy of the verse. I’ll share it in the morning. I don’t think it will make breakfast particularly digestible, but there you go.

* * *

The men rose early to get ready for work. Once they were sitting at the table having coffee and eating yogurt, cherry for Dylan, and key lime for Peter, Dylan pulled the two copies out of his pocket.

“This came last night in the mail,” he said, waving the original, “I made a copy.” He handed the copy to Peter who read silently.

Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Revenge has a price,

Suffering and Torture aren’t very nice.

Spread the hate around until the world has learned.

What you once discarded is also what you’ve earned.

“It isn’t very hard to understand,” Peter said. “Somebody, or some persons, were tortured and as a result they want revenge.”

Dylan nodded, “That’s what I got.”

“There’s also a threat in the last line,” Peter said. “It sounds like the old parable about past sins ‘coming home to roost.’ Am I supposed to have committed some terrible sin in the past?”

“You’re forgetting,” Dylan said. “This Patty Cake didn’t get delivered to you. It was in my mailbox.”

“Only because IT know I’m here.”

“IT? What IT? “

“You know what IT,” Peter said. “The same IT that made my neck bleed. The same IT that stared at you in the Emergency Waiting Room. The same IT that stared at me as a woman when I was being wheeled toward your car. The IT under the stairs.”

Peter got up. “I like Stephen King. I love Tolkien and Lovecraft and L. Frank Baum. I’m crazy about Harry Potter, but I never expected anything out of the ordinary to happen to me. But it’s happening, and it’s affecting both of us, because I’m here with you.”

“So, what is that supposed to mean?”

Peter took his half-finished yogurt container and walked to the sink. The garbage was under it in two neat pails, one for recycling and one for land fill. Peter was usually thoughtful about where he put wastes, but he just tossed the yogurt into the least full bin. “I’m afraid for you,” Peter said.

Dylan got up and took Peter by his arms. “I don’t want to hear that. There’s no you and me. There’s just US. That’s the way that I see our relationship. What happens to one of us, involves both of us. Whatever the hell is going on…”

“Hell!” Peter repeated with a sour laugh.

“Whatever the hell is going on!” Dylan repeated, his voice louder than Peter’s. “You’re not facing it alone and that’s not a debate, Peter. It’s not!”

The kitchen was silent. For a moment the two men stared at each other. Dylan’s face was a mask of firm resolution. Peter’s face seemed to mirror his, but then he leaned into Dylan’s arms. “I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you because of me.”

“If anything happens to me, it won’t be because of you. We just need to find out who or what is doing this.”

Peter nodded against Dylan’s shoulder and stood upright. “You’re right,” he said. “We’d better get a move on, or we’ll both be late for work.”

Once again, Dylan drove Peter to get his car. Before Peter got out of his car, Dylan took his arm and said, “I don’t want you to hesitate to call me if any more of this Patty Cake crap happens. I don’t care if it’s another rhyme, someone staring at you, or anything that makes your alarm bells go off, call me. If I’m in court, they’ll let me know and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” He let go of Peter’s arm and Peter opened the door. Once again, Dylan grabbed hold. “Wait. Listen. If something happens that makes you feel, in any way, in danger, call me and say to whoever answers that this message is RED. I’ll alert people on my end, and they’ll know what to do. Okay.?”

Peter smiled and nodded, but Dylan didn’t let go yet.

“I mean it, Peter.” He thought for a moment, “Swear on Jesus.”

Peter turned pale. If Peter said those words, his Catholic upbringing would not let him lie. He breathed deeply for three breaths and said, “I swear on Jesus.” and crossed himself.

“Zei gezunt,” grinned Dylan, “it’s Yiddish. It’s a wish for good health, but it’s not exactly translatable. It’s broader than that and takes in a lot of territory. So don’t forget.”

Peter gave an internal chuckle and said, “I’ve always meant to ask you. How does a Jewish guy get a waspy last name like Cooper?”

Dylan’s lips puckered and his mouth gave a sideways smirk. “Ellis Island, God bless ‘em, that’s what they took from Kupfer.” Then Dylan got serious, “Don’t forget?!” he said.

“I won’t. I promised, remember?”

Peter got out and closed the door. Dylan pushed a button, and the passenger window slid down. “Have a great day. Love you.”

“I love you too,” Peter said, and was surprised to realize, as he went into the parking garage, that he hadn’t felt the need to look around to see if anyone had heard him say that to another man.

Peter’s morning was wonderfully calm. He got a chance to check all his emails and greet incoming teachers before he hurried to the front of the school to welcome the kids.

Mary had come in and greeted him as he headed out to the arrivals. “Have fun. I know this is one of the favorite parts of your day.”

“Thanks. It is and so is having you outside my office.”

Mary twinkled and Peter smiled as he hurried to greet the kids.

A plus was Helen Shaeffer stopping by with a very happy face to say, “You’ve ignited a writing explosion in my class. The other children heard that Sybil and Donna got to read you their Patty Cake, and now everyone is trying to write one for you. I thought I’d wait until they were all done and then we’ll tell Mary, and she’s slot you in for a visit and a reading.”

Peter grinned. So, Patty Cake has at least one positive. “That sounds just great Thank you Helen.”

Peter’s spirits were high. He had long found that it took little to raise his spirits and just as little to make them sag. But it was great to be high after so many recent lows.

When arrivals were over, Peter walked back to his office and found himself particularly aware of the beauty of The Enchanted Book Forest plus all the areas that were class planting sites and the growing results of their effort. The air was brisk with that leaf mold smell that always came with autumn; he loved it. Autumn was his favorite season.

He walked into his office prepared to tell Mary all about Helen’s class, but she came toward him with a smile and a gift-wrapped box. She held it out to him.

“What is this?”

“Dave brought it up. He said someone’s grandmother dropped it off and then left,” she told him it was a present for you.”

“Come into my inner chamber and we’ll see what it is.”

Once Mary was inside the office, Peter closed the door and put the box on his desk and took a scissor from the Disneyland mug he used for his pencils, pens and scissor.

“I wonder whose grandmother it was,” Peter said, as he looked at the wrapping for a card. “Nope. No card. Only your name written in Marker on the wrapping paper. Maybe it’s under the wrapping paper.”

He cut the paper away and neatly deposited it in his trash can. Under the wrapping was a plain white box with a logo on one side. It was a picture of a bottle of cologne that said Fragrance Du Hommes.

Peter’s jaw dropped. “Oh no. This is crazy. He opened the box and inside was a bottle exactly like the one in the picture on the box. “Mary, this stuff is $400 to $600 a tiny bottle. Who would give this to me?”

“What are you so surprised about. They all love you. It’s probably some adoringly rich grandma who grandchildren are happy and love you, so she’s showing her gratitude.”

“Do you want to smell it?” Peter said.

“Of course! Go on and open it.”

Peter studied the bottle. He’d seen this cologne in some fancy mall stores but had never owned a bottle. In truth, he never used cologne and seldom used after shave lotion. He fiddled with it until, Mary said. “I think you turn it upside down, press down on the big wide stopper on the top, and a drop lands in your palm.”

Peter inverted the bottle and tried to do what Mary said. “This is a little clumsy. You must hold it and push the top down at the same time…Oops!”

He had the bottle upside down, but before he could get his hand under it, the top pulled down and a drop fell on his desk.

“GET BACK!” Peter said, pulled Mary away from his desk with one hand.

Mary had given a tiny scream, but Peter didn’t hear it. He was completely focused on his desk. A terrible smell had filled the office. It was so acrid that it made his eyes tear, and nostrils burn. Peter’s windows were opened, but it hardly helped.

That wasn’t all that burned. The single drop of ‘cologne’ and instantly burned a hole through the top of his desk. The top had an edge that was several inches larger that the body of the desk it sat on. Helen and Mary saw that in a matter of seconds the contents of the expensive cologne bottle had not only burned through the desk but was burning through the floor.

“Shit!” Peter said, “The kids locker room is just underneath. It’s first period. The fifth graders have P.E.” Peter was about to rush from his office, when a thought struck him and he turned to Mary. “Mary, no one can know about this until we decide how to handle it. I want to speak to the Head and definitely get ahead of any information. You understand.”

“Absolutely. No one gets to know.”

Peter dashed from the office and headed for the staircase that led down to the locker room below. Then he stopped. Across the hallway, the gymnasium was filled with students laughing. Peter hurried across the hall and through the doors. One of the P.E. teachers, Gale Siegel hurried over to him. “Hi, Peter, did you need anyone?”

“Are all the kids out of the locker room?” he asked.

“Yeah. We took attendance already.”

Peter saw that the children hadn’t changed into their shorts.

“They didn’t change today?”

“No,” Gale said, “It’s a bit chilly and we’re taking them out to the field for soccer practice.”

Peter caught himself before he said what he was thinking, Thank God! “Gale, I’m just about to shut the locker room for safety sake. There may be a leak down there, so I’m going to lock it up.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

Peter tried to smile, shook his head and, “No, just wanted to tell you and make sure there were no kids down there.” He moved, without racing, as he felt like doing, out of the gym and down to the locker room. The door to the locker room was, Thank goodness, still locked. Peter took out his keys and slowly opened the door. I have no idea whether that acid went this far, he thought.

He peered around the door and looked up at the ceiling. At first, he didn’t see anything, but then he heard it. There was a distinct sound Plink! Plink! Plink! Peter had a walkie talkie unit so he could communicate with the offices on the campus with ease, but he’d left it on his desk. But I’ve got my cell phone.

He called Mary and asked her to contact Milo who was head of the campus maintenance and ask him to come down to the locker room.

Peter moved into the room, looking up to be sure he wasn’t standing under any leak. Now that he was in the room, the dripping sound was louder, and the smell of the acid was quickly filling the air. Peter took out his handkerchief and held it over his nose. Shit! It didn’t do anything by make it harder for him to breathe.

He heard the dripping sound again and this time he caught a glimpse of it. It was directly over one of the rows of lockers. Peter hit the switch that turned on all the overhead lights and saw exactly where the acid drip was.

A hand landed on his shoulder and Peter jumped.

“Sorry, Pete. Didn’t mean to startle you,” said Milo.

“Don’t be sorry; it’s just that it’s been a crazy morning.” He explained about the mysterious ‘present’ and its contents adding that this has got to stay in his office; it can’t get out to the teachers or kids.”

Milo nodded with understanding. “You’ll handle it. I know you, but you don’t need an avalance before you have the shovel.”

Peter chuckled, “Exactly.”

“Only one drop fell on my desk, and it burned all the way through the floor.” He pointed to the lockers. “It’s over there.” Milo moved forward, but Peter grabbed his arm. “No. Don’t! That stuff is dangerous. I’m going to call the police. What I need you to do is close off the locker room area with some of that yellow tape, the cones and some signage. Nothing scary.”

“How about ‘Temporarily Closed for Repairs."“

“Perfect,” said Peter. “I’ll lock the room up and wait till you bring the sign. Meantime, I’ll ask Mary to call the police.”

“I’ll be back in about five minutes,” Milo said and hurried out of the room.

Peter stayed just long enough to contact Mary and ask her to call the local precinct. “We don’t want to frighten the kids,” Peter said, “so please tell the police to park on the campus and if kids ask them anything to just say that they’re paying a visit. They’ll understand, we’ve had them here before. Also tell them about the acid and what it’s done so far. It burned through the ceiling in the locker room, so it is very strong stuff.”

Peter was only off the phone with Mary for a few minutes when Milo returned with his assistant, Carlos.

“Carlos know that this is top secret,” Milo said immediately.

“Thank you. Carlos, you understand that we don’t want to panic the community?

“Sure, Mr. McDonnell. It’s just in this club.”

“Is it okay if I leave you guys. We’ve called the police, and I don’t know how soon they’ll get here. Just please don’t do anything that can get you hurt. We don’t know what that acid is or how strong it is. If it burned through my desk and the floor, it will no trouble burning through flesh.”

When Peter got upstairs, his walkie talkie was blinging. He picked it up. “Peter, it’s Dave in security. We have two officers here to see you. Shall I bring them up.”

“Yes, please do, Dave. Thank you, and stay a moment so I can talk to you.”

“Right, sir.” the walkie talkie was silent.

Peter was nervous about the arrival of the police. He wondered if they could do anything about the acid or whether they would assemble a team of hazmat-suited people coming to the campus and telling him to evacuate while they covered the building with a protective plastic envelope. Should he be calling the Head’s office at this point. No. Don’t jump. Let’s first wait and see what the police say. Then I’ll call her and have a full story.

Peter stood in the outer office to greet the police. Mary said, “Are you going to call Lydia? I think she’d want to know about police on the campus.”

“I’m going to call her after we see what the police are going to do. Then I’ll have a full story to share. I think we need to first find out how much damage we’ve got.” The sound of voices coming toward the office ended the conversation.

Dave entered with three police, two men and a woman.

“These are officers, Parker, DeMarco and Vincent,” David pointed at each. DeMarco was the woman.

“Thank you, Dave. Would you all like to come into my office. Dave, do you want to join us for a minute, or do you have to get back to your kiosk?”

“I’d better get back. I’ll drop by when maintenance covers me for my lunch.”

Peter nodded and just took time to repeat the same message about keeping the story top secret until he’d communicated with the parents himself.

“Does maintenance know to keep it quiet?” Dave asked.

“They do, but don’t even discuss it with them unless it’s necessary for internal reasons and if it is, let me know please.”

Dave reaasured Peter and left.

“Great,” Peter said, “Please come in officers.”

Peter showed them the unlabeled box, the bottle that had been inside and the holes in the desk and floor. They had stopped smoking, but the smell was still in the air.

“You certainly got some surprise present, Mr. McDonnell,” Office Parker said.

Officer Vincent had a large container in his hand. “That is some strong stuff you got as a gift, but this container is made of polyethylene, fluorocarbon plastic. It shouldn’t have any trouble with your acid.” Officer Vincent put on gloves and unhooked metal tongs he had clipped to his belt. Once gloved, he used the clamps to pick up the stopper, put it into the faux bottle of cologne and place it inside the container.

Officer Parker asked what was below the office. Peter told about the locker room and how he knew it leaked through, but that he didn’t know whether it had eaten through a locker or not. Officer Parker asked Officer Vincent to go down and check it out. “Once Officer Vincent has had a chance to look at the lockers, we’ll decide what the next move is.”

“Here’s the key,” to the Locker room,” Peter said. “When you go downstairs, it’s the only room.”

Officer Vincent took the key and left.

“Why don’t you close your office door, Mr. McDonnell so we can talk about this gift.” Officer Parker said. Peter closed the door, and the officers sat on the couch with Peter sitting opposite them. Officer DeMarco took out an electronic pad and stylus.

“Do you have any idea why someone might do this to you.” Parker asked. “Have you received any other threatening items?”

Peter told them about the Patty Cake verses. Parker asks if he has them.

“Yes, I’ve printed them out.” Peter got up and took the paper from his backpack and handed it to the Officer. “You can keep it; I have copies on my laptop.”

The Officers wanted to know now how each of the verses had arrived. Peter told them about all of them. He didn’t say that they’d been branded into Dylan’s doors. He suggested that they’d been left on the door.

“And Dylan is…?” Officer Parker asked.

“A good friend,” Peter said.

“Might he have any reason to send you any of these verses?” Parker asked.

“On no. We’re very close friends, and he was with me when one of the verses arrived.” He told them about the one left in Dylan’s mailbox.

Office Parker raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting.”

“Believe me, it has nothing to do with Dylan,” Peter said quickly.

“Is there anyone, think carefully, anyone at all who might send you these verses or this box of acid?”

Peter thought of Jim Kellin immediately, but if he said his name and the police spoke to him, Kellin would go off the deep end. Besides, how could Kellin have done some of the things that had happened. “No one comes to mind,” Peter said, “but I’ll give it some real thought and get back to you if I do think of someone.”

There was a knock at Peter’s office door, and Officer Vincent entered. “How much damage is there?” Office Parker asked.

It came through the floor but when it hit the top of the locker below, it had lost its potency, there isn’t a hole in the locker. I got a ladder from your maintenance guy and checked.

“What about if a kid puts his hand on top?” Peter asked.

Officer Vincent shook his head, “I put my hand on top after checking it out.”

“But that was still very serious stuff,” Parker said. “If you’d splashed that cologne onto your hands, your secretary wouldn’t have had to call us. We’d have heard you. Let’s sit down again for a minute.”

Once they were seated, Parker continued, “Do you get a lot of packages?”

Peter shook his head. “Not ones without an address and a name attached.

Parker thought a minute, “If you get any packages at all, put them aside and bring them to the precinct. You have our address?”

Peter nodded.

“Good. Bring it to us and let us open it. It’s worth the trouble to be safe. And, if you have reason, right off the bat, to be concerned about the package just call us and we’ll come and get it.”

“Thank you.”

“When we get back to the station, we’ll check and see if there have been any other incidents of people receiving cologne that turned out to be acid or anything similar. We’ll also check to see if anyone else has reported any poems like the ones you showed us.”

“That would be interesting to find out,” Peter said. “I’ve been thinking that I was the only person getting it.”

“You might be, but we’ll find out. Do you mind if we check in with you periodically?

“No. Not at all. Thank you.”

The police left and Mary came over to Peter to find out what happened. He told her and then excused himself to call Lydia Jameson, the Head of the School.

The conversation with Lydia was long as she wanted details. Peter could tell that she was concerned about what would have happened if students had been affected by the event. “Are you sure that there isn’t anyone you can think of who might be angry about their child or something you said?”

Peter felt his back go up. He didn’t think he ever said anything to a child or parent that could turn into the gift of acid.

“No. I don’t believe so, but this could be anyone. It might not be a person related to the school. It might just be some sick character who sends this thing out. The Police are going to check to see if this or any other dangerous gift has been sent to another school.”

Lydia made a thinking sound. “I’m wondering if we should or shouldn’t send this to the parent body. It’s bound to cause a stir if we do, and it could be criticized if we don’t. What do you think?”

“I generally think that honesty is the best policy. I’d write to the parents and say that I received a box sent to me and its contents, and how the police took care of it and are checking to see if they’ve had any reports about other such packages. I also want to have an assembly with the children in case parents share the story. It will be a good way to include a lesson on not taking gifts from strangers and to tell they that the police know and are protecting us.”

“I think that’s the right thing to do, and we’ll just have to deal with the aftermath. My guess is that most parents will just be very concerned about your safety.” She paused and then quietly said. “I hope I’m not out of line here, Peter, but do you think that some deranged person might be targeting you because of your lifestyle.”

“My lifestyle?”

There was another pause and Lydia lowered her voice. “There are some sick people out there that might have decided to target you if they think that you’re a gay man.”

Peter felt as if all the oxygen had suddenly been sucked out of the room. A combination of feelings shot through him in a kaleidoscope of emotions: shock, embarrassment, distress and…he was surprised at a final feeling; it was relief.

“I live in Manhattan, and I’ve seen you with a very handsome friend. I don’t know his name, but he lives not far from you. I’ve seen you two several times and I know that some parents and board members have too. It may surprise you, but everyone in Manhattan talks about who is with whom a lot of the time whether they’re gay or straight or undecided. I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable. As far as I know it doesn’t make anyone else uncomfortable. And I really hope we haven’t been jumping to conclusions. He might be your brother or cousin or just a good friend.”

Peter took the deepest breath he could remember ever taking, This is the moment, he decided. “No, he’s not a relative. We’re very close,” he said. “His name is Dylan Cooper; he’s a lawyer. I’ve kept a separate apartment for a long time, but he owns a brownstone, and he’s asked me to move in with him; I’m going to.”

They spoke for a short time after that. Peter was surprised, relieved and deeply appreciative of Lydia’s repeated assurances of her support.

Slightly trembling, Peter looked at his watch, grabbed his materials and rushed to his fourth-grade class. I’ll work on the letter after dismissal, he thought, but he was already - as so often happened - composing it as he rushed to his waiting children.

Peter’s students were reading a slightly abridged version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and acting it out. Today they were looking back at the songs in the play and scanning them for rhyme and meter, but the best part of the period was when the kids took parts and started acting out the next scene. Today it was the scene where Titania wakes up under the spell of the magic flower and falls in love with Bottom the tailor enchanted by Puck and now wearing the head of a donkey. Both Peter, and the kids, were hysterical watching their classmates do the scene.

Back at his office, Peter is greeted by Mary who says, “Can you take a minute and hear Sybil and Donna’s verse they wrote for you?”

“Of course.”

Mary went to the girls who came in very excited and flushed. Peter sat on the couch in the outer office and the girls stood in front of him and began:

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Chocolate and vanilla shake, Devil Dogs, cupcakes, donuts and twinkies, Make our bodies tingle to the tips of our pinkies”

Peter clapped loudly as did Mary.

“That was wonderful,” Peter said. “It was clever, and I love your rhymes. They’re excellent and not forced. Do you think I could have a copy with your names on it to hang in my office? When I have a guest, I can share your wonderful Patty Cake.”

“We’ll make it nice on colored paper, Mr. McDonnell,” Sybil said,

“And we can do the rhyming verses in a different color,” Donna added.

The buzzer sounded for dismissal and the two girls, blushing deeply, hurried to give Peter a hug before returning to their classes.

“So darling,” Mary said.

“They’re pretty great aren’t they,” Peter said. He put his teaching materials on his desk and hurried to dismissal.

When he came back, Mary was clearing her desk, “Do you need me for anything?” she asked.

Peter thought of the letter to the parents, but he could tell that Mary was in an unusual hurry to leave.

“No, go ahead.”

“You know I’m usually here for another hour, but Ron is taking me out to dinner, and I want to go home and change.”

“Have a wonderful time. If it’s a good restaurant tell me about it tomorrow.”

“I will, “Mary said. “It’s an Italian place in little Italy that’s supposed to be good. I’ll try to get a copy of the menu.”

Peter grinned, “Have a great time and say ‘hi’ to Ron for me.”

When Peter returned from dismissal, Rosalyn Vega was emptying Peter’s office garbage into her black bag. “If you’re leaving Mr. McDonnell, I can dust and vacuum your office.”

“Can you give me another hour and a half for that, Mrs. Vega? I need to type a letter.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll do the rest of the floor and come back to you at the end. If you’re not ready,” she shrugged, “then I’ll do the second floor and come back after that.”

“Thanks, you’re the best,” Peter said.

Mrs. Vega smiled and left.

Peter settled in his office and decided to write his letter, which was almost fully formed in his mind, and then try to leave early. He would leave his emails for when he was home with Dylan. He remembered that they were going to cook dinner and quickly texted Dylan to ask what groceries he could pick up and suggested roasted chicken thighs and drumsticks for the main dish and a crisp salad to cleanse the palate and then fruit salad for dessert.

Dylan sent a thumbs up, so Peter knew he was busy. Peter wrote a list of what he had to buy and then something white caught his peripheral vision. He saw that Mrs. Vega had missed one folded piece of paper in his trash. It was one piece of paper that looked almost liked a note card or a greeting card. What’s that? Peter leaned down and picked it from the waste basket. He spread it flat in his hand. There was one word written on it, Faaagutttt!!

Without thinking whether this might be something to save for the police, Peter was so shocked that he just tore it until it was only tiny pieces. Then he carried it to teacher’s bathroom in the hall and flushed them down the toilet praying that it wouldn’t create a clog.

As he stood there, he thought about Jim Kellen. He thought about the man’s behavior in his office. He had been pretty much out of control. But then, in the Enchanted Book Forest, he’d apologized. Still, there was so much about Kellen that felt ‘off.’ The way he manipulated his class and the members of the Teachers Union. Why was he always on his computer? It didn’t seem, at least not from what Peter had seen that he was creating lessons for his Smart Board. I don’t remember ever seeing him use that except to show some cartoonish schoolhouse rock sort of thing that doesn’t even go with the grade level he’s teaching. Could Jim have slipped into his office and put the note in the trash can? When had he done it? How would he know that I’d even find it.? Why didn’t it go in Rosalyn Vega’s garbage bag? She didn’t leave it there, he was certain. And the way the word was written. Read aloud it would sound very much like the voice he’d heard coming out of the Enchanted Book Forest. Right after his encounter with Jim Kellen.

Peter began to wonder if he’d done right thing by not mentioning Jim to the police. It doesn’t matter. I can always call them if I want to do that.

He wished Mary hadn’t left early, because he could casually ask her if Jim had dropped by. Unless she’d been in the lady’s room, Mary wouldn’t miss anyone moving in the direction of his office.

He returned there now and sat at his computer. The letter. I was going to write the letter to the parents about the acid.

The letter took less than thirty minutes to write and edit. He would ask Lydia if he should email it to the parents or put out a formal mailing. It could also be backpacked, but he vetoed the idea the second he’d thought of it. Not in the children’s hands.

* * *

While Peter drove home, his mind felt overwhelmed with all that had happened. It seems impossible that it all happened in a single day, he thought. The acid. Who the hell could have sent that? If it’s Jim Kellen, then he’s a dangerous lunatic. If it is Kellen, then he’s got to be reported. I heard that strange voice saying ‘that’ word when I left Jim and that’s the word in my garbage. It’s too damn coincidental.

When Peter reached the Cross Bronx Expressway, he was seventy-five percent sure he would call the police and then go to the precinct himself to tell them of his suspicions.

You know that moment when you have suffered over something bad that seems to take over your whole body and then suddenly your mind wanders and the bad feelings you were having just stop, as if your nerves have overshot their charge over that issue and you find yourself calm and relieved. It was then that Peter remembered his discussion with Lydia and his admission that he was moving in with Daryl. The most important thing was that she had known, or suspected, he was gay for some time and so had some number of parents. Peter had thought he had been so discrete. He gave a silent chuckle. Was it possible to be discrete in Manhattan?

Peter parked his car in the garage and talked to the manager about monthly parking. Once that tidy sum was agreed upon, Peter headed down the street, list in hand, to buy the groceries. He loved Daryl’s block with its row of brownstones looking so perfect with lights in the windows and glimpses of bookcases or heads moving about. It was so different from his apartment, almost like moving from the city to the suburbs all within the city.

What?!

Peter was almost to the corner where the so-convenient grocery store was, when he saw her. She was crouching behind a beautifully fashioned wrought iron gate that kept the public from one of the brownstones. It was one of those homes that had steps leading down to an apartment in what would otherwise be the basement or, perhaps, a playroom for the brownstone. In the shadows of that staircase crouched a figure. There was very little light to see it clearly, but the way it stared out at him, those large, bright eyes and the glimpses of large teeth below. It was the woman he’d seen under the stairs at his building. He half expected her to start climbing up the wall of the brownstone and stood frozen in terrible anticipation of such a scene. But, instead, she slipped further down the stairs and disappeared.

Peter stood still, fixed on the spot where he’d seen her, afraid that if he looked away-even for a second- she would do something shocking. She would leap out at him or scream as she had done before. Or vanish into a hole in the wall like she had vanished into the inverted well in the ceiling. Seconds passed, and she did not reappear.

The mind, bent on logic, told him that it wasn’t the same woman. This was the tenant who lived below. How else had she gotten passed the wrought iron gate. It was too tall to scale and had sharp, twisted, ornamental spikes at the tops. She wasn’t crouching. She had dropped her keys and been surprised as he stared at her, so she’d stared back.

Peter tried hard to believe that. He turned and continued to the supermarket still trying to believe it.

Chapter 18:

“Ah, the man with the groceries.” Dylan opened the door before Peter got his key in the lock.

“I’m so glad you’re home, Dylan,” Peter said, and before launching into his own day, he added, “How was your day?”

Dylan locked the door and took one of Peter’s bundles. They walked to the kitchen and started unloading.

“My day was intense, but every day in a law office is intense.”

Dylan went on to tell a story of a woman who came to see him about a very complicated divorce that involved a great deal of money on both sides plus five children, three properties. and the fact that both husband and wife had caught each other with various lovers.

“I told her that she and her husband should agree to have an open marriage and stay together for the sake of the children and the mess that a divorce would create not to mention how long it would take to work out the grievances and the complicated money situation. I even said, fool that I am, that I would meet with her and her husband to discuss it.”

“Did she accept it?”

“Of course not!” Dylan said, raising his arms as if he were appealing to the heavens. “That would have been much too easy; she wants out and she wants a whopping share of the assets.” Dylan opened a jar of olives and ate two greedily. “Aah! I’ll work through it. How was your day?”

“Let’s get dinner on the table,” Peter said, “my story’s a little long.”

“Hmm. That sounds ominous. Patty Cake?”

Peter nodded. “But not just Patty Cake. I had a very interesting talk with the head of the school to whom I am officially, and fully accepted as being, a gay man.”

Of course, Dylan wanted to know that story, but a hungry Peter begged that they first write the story of how to assemble sesame soy chicken with coconut rice. Under the direction of Dylan’s Le Cordon Bleu expertise Peter began to dissect the chicken.

In less than an hour, the two men were clicking martini glasses and enjoying their dinner.

“We can eat and talk at the same time. Come on. I want to hear about how you were uncloseted and accepted. Hey, wait, was the outting part of the Patty Cake?”

Peter first told Dylan the part about the head of school seeing Peter and Dylan together, along with various parents, and how people assumed a relationship and apparently were ‘cool’ with it.

“Thank god we live in New York and not Tennessee. You must be so relieved,” Dylan said. “At least I hope you feel like that.”

“I do,” Peter said. “It’s liberating. At my next faculty meeting, which is a week from Wednesday, I’m going to tell the faculty and work it into a broader discussion of our ongoing work in supporting diversity in the Elementary School.”

“Sounds excellent,” Dylan said. “I hope you’re not worried about the contingent of children who come to the school from Bronxville.”

Peter shook his head. “Bronxville has a stuck up reputation, but they’re actually more open about LGBTQ issues than parts of the city.”

“And now comes the Patty Cake part of today’s story. I received a gift of acid,.”

“Acid? Shit! You’re not in the hospital, so I assume you didn’t get hurt? Did you? Tell me!”

“It came as a present delivered by some woman that our security guard assumed was someone’s grandmother,” Peter said and told Dylan the entire story and how it led to his discussion with Lydia.

“I’m seriously thinking of reporting this to the police,” Dylan said. “It must have been the 36th precinct that came when you had that terrible experience at your apartment building.”

“It’s already been reported to the Bronxville police,” Peter said.

“Did you tell them about the apartment and what happened there?”

“No,” said Peter. “I didn’t even tell the 36th precinct all that happened, why would I tell that to the Bronxville police?”

Dylan got up from the table and began to pace. He ran his hand through his hair, which always looked as if he had just come from the barber and retained that look even after being ruffled.

“If you brought this to my office, I would prepare a brief. It would be presented to a judge to rule on. I think I want to do that with all that’s happened.”

“To give to a judge? How would that work?”’

“It wouldn’t, but it’s one way to help us look at the facts in an organized way.”

“Here are the Facts in the Case,” Dylan began. He pulled out his cell and typed a list as he spoke.

1. Peter has received, and in one instance heard, eight Patty Cake verses.

2. Each one contains a threat. (write the Patty Cake verses in order and date for the judge and identify the threats.

3. One threat involved sticking a needle in the neck until it bled; this happened (mysteriously) to Peter.

4. Another verse was about a bum and strychnine. This might refer to the seemingly homeless woman under the stairs. Is the poison a metaphor for the shock that Peter experienced that almost resulted in another hospitalization?

5. The verse about acid came in masquerading as a cologne bottle in a mysterious gift package with no return address label.

6. The next verse threatens castration and the sick image of the appendage being baked in a pie.

7. Other verses threaten:

(a) the possibility of being accused of lying for personal gain and then being found out.

(b) The verse on the door of my brownstone threatens what sounded like a heart attack leading to death.

(c) A vague threat that might be relevant to Dylan’s and Peter’s relationship.

(d) Finally: the threat of retribution for some past act of torture. - This may be the key to solving and resolving the entire Patty Cake phenomenon.

“Peter, someone is threatening and attacking you. We don’t know the reason, but that’s something we need to dedicate ourselves to figuring out. Whoever that person is, they need to be found and brought to justice. Your nemesis, Jim Kellen, is one suspect, because he has a motive. But we have to be careful not to put all our bets on this obvious suspect. We need to make a list of other possible suspects masquerading as friends. You know what I’m going to do. I’m going to do some legal snooping to see if your good buddy Kellen has any criminal record.”

“Dylan, remember that my tech specialist, Mike Phelan is researching the origins of the Patty Cake verse that might go before the Thomas d'Urfey play, The Campaigners. We know that Patty Cake was used in that play, but that doesn’t mean that d’Urfey didn’t find a form of it in some older source material.”

Dylan nodded and forked the last of the sesame soy chicken with coconut rice into his mouth. He drew a napkin across his mouth and said, “After I dump this in the sink with some dishwasher soap and hot water, I’ve got to do some work before bed.”

Peter hastily finished his food and said, “Time to see how my students did with their Shakespearean character paragraphs.”

“We’ll do some shopping to buy you something you can use as a better workspace than the dining room table or the kitchen island,” Dyland said. “Something that accommodates your laptop and a writing space. How about a vist to Ikea this weekend?”

“That would be great,” Peter said as he cleared the table, so he could work there.

“Okay, let’s go!”

For the next two hours, both men were busy. Peter finished reading and writing his response comments before Dylan emerged from his little office space. He went into the bedroom, undressed and climbed into the shower. I can at least be clean for what I hope… The shower stall door opened and a naked Dylan stepped in.

“Here’s the soap,” Peter said holding out the soap with a big grin on his face.

“You’re all soapy,” Dylan said, pushing away the bar of soap, “share.” He caught Peter in a slippery embrace and began a long, languorous rubbing against Peter’s soapy body.

After rapture in the shower stall, the two dried off and slipped under the sheets where Dylan lay splayed out and Peter lay splayed out on top of him. It didn’t take much foreplay before they discovered rapture struck again. Exhausted at last, the two fell asleep, first locked together, and eventually rolling over to their favorite sleeping positions.

Peter woke with his mouth so dry he could hardly swallow. Despite feeling exhausted, and slightly out of focus, Peter stumbled out of bed and made his way from the bedroom to the kitchen. He was filling a glass of water at the sink and dimly aware that he had no recollection of walking from bedroom to kitchen.

He lifted the glass to his lips, but when he tipped it there was no sensation of drinking, and his throat remained uncomfortably dry. Still exhausted, Peter moved to the kitchen’s food-prep island to lean and try to drink the water again. The island was solid when he leaned against it; at the same time he was distantly aware that the glass of water was no longer in his hand. Did I leave it at the sink?

Peter looked across the island into the murky darkness of the living room. He glimpsed a wavering outline of the sofa and some chairs mostly hidden in the murky darkness. There was movement in the shadows and Peter could make out a form on the sofa. It was leaning forward into a dim light that had no source.

It’s her!

The woman’s bright eyes and large teeth were what he saw most clearly, and they filled Peter with terror. He wanted to call Dylan, but the dryness of his throat, plus an inability to access his throat muscles made that impossible.

She was no longer sitting on the couch, and as Peter stared at her, she seemed to move as in intermittent shutter flickers. Sitting on the couch. Standing a few feet from the couch. Bent forward a few steps closer. A few more steps and now with arms reaching out. Then she was gone. Peter whirled around to see her at the sink. Now she was reaching down toward the handle of a drawer to the right of the sink. Suddenly she was holding a skillet in one hand. She reached into a cabinet to the left of the sink. A burner on the stove was on, the skillet resting on the burners. The woman had a bottle of oil in one hand and was pouring the oil into the skillet.

Peter’s sense of his physical space completely altered. He was no longer standing but lying prone on the island. He was naked and could feel his bare skin on the uncomfortably cold surface of the island. Staring upward he saw the linear chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, yet somehow he could also see the woman at the stove, but instead of a bottle of oil, she was now holding a large carving knife in her hand.

The world blinked and she was standing beside him. He struggled to move, but all he could do was stare at the linear chandeliers. Although he couldn’t move, he could feel. The woman has placed a hand on his left thigh and was pulling it toward her, moving his leg away from his other leg. The hand shifted and was now pushing his right thigh out. Now his legs now formed a generous ‘V’ leaving his genitals on terrible display.

The woman leaned over the island. Her eyes look down at him, larger and brighter than ever before. There were concentric circles of winkled skin surrounding them, and jagged crow’s feet pulling at the corners of her eyes. She was smiling, her lips stretched so that he could see myriad cracks on their surface. Several were bleeding. Her large bright teeth flashed and he stared at them and considered the damage they might cause. His view of the eye and teeth was interrupted. The large carving knife had been lifted up to his eyeline.

Peter felt his body is shaking uncontrollably even though he continued to be frozen in place. Oh God! Oh God! Sweet Jesus help me! The woman’s head appears behind the heavy blade. It moves from side to side almost like the undulating movement of a snake as if she were moving to the rhythm of some exotic music before striking.

The blade rose higher and then, as the woman gives a hoarse, shrill, shriek she struck!

Peter was unable to give voice to the horribly shocking, agony, unlike anything he had ever experienced or imagined before. It swelled and pulsated as the woman lifted her bloody trophy and carried it to the sizzling pan. Still staring up at the lights, his head swollen with the burning, tearing pain he can find no verbal outlet for, Peter was still able to see the woman drop the bloody trophy into the sizzling pan. With his strange stereo vision, Peter sees both the lights and the dough that the woman is working. Pain, shock and despair overwhelm him…

… and he opens his eyes .

Lying in the bed beside Dylan, Peter now only has the vivid memories of that terrible, burning pain. As he lies there it quickly dissipates. With hands that he cannot keep from shaking, he reaches down half expecting to feel a pool of blood on and between his thighs and the hole that must now exist where his penis has been taken. But there was no blood and his penis remained untouched.

Holding on to that precious part of his anatomy, Peter lies in bed shaking, nauseated and disassociated from his environment. Dylan is an abstract figure lying on his side, his face turned from Peter.

Unable to stay in bed, he got up and walked, unsteadily, toward the kitchen. Peter was afraid that the woman would be there waiting for him, and the whole horror would repeat itself. But he is alone in the room. The clock over the stove reads 2:00 a.m. Peter sets up a pot of strong coffee and turns it on. He knows that he will not go back to sleep that night.

He waits for the coffee to be ready and carefully avoids looking at the food preparation island.

Chapter 19

At a quarter to five, Dylan rolled over and reached for Peter in the dark. The rest of the bed was empty, and Peter’s share of the covers were thrown back.

“Peter?” Dylan called. The dry air in the bedroom made his voice sound like gravel. He cleared his throat, sniffed, and smelled coffee! Gimme some of that stuff! he thought. He got up, grabbed his underpants, jabbed his legs through the leg openings, and hurried out to wet his throat with caffeine.

Peter was sitting in the living room reading a book and sipping lukewarm coffee.

Dylan yawned, dug one hand into his briefs and scratched at his pubic hair. “Good morning,” he said through a yawn.

“Very elegant,” Peter said. “I thought you were digging into your undies to see if your personality was intact. That’s how I woke up.”

Dylan took down a coffee mug, filled it, took a hot sip, and then joined Peter in the living room. “What do you mean, ‘that’s how you woke up’?”

“I had a terrible dream,” Peter answered, “the worst I’ve ever had. I’ve been out here most of the night, because of it, couldn’t bear to go back to sleep.”

He told Dylan his dream.

“God,” Dylan said. “That really was a shitty dream! Was this the woman with the eyes and the teeth; the one you saw at the apartment?”

Peter nodded. “Actually, I think this was the fourth time I’ve seen her.” Peter went through her appearances, the latest being at the brownstone right on their street.

“Wait, you didn’t tell me about seeing her when you went to get groceries?”

“It was bizarre the way she was going down into the lower apartment of the brownstone. It reminded me of the first time I saw her at the apartment. You remember what I told you about that?”

Dylan started to get up, “Yeah. I remember. Look, Peter, I’m going to call the police and give them a description of her, the eyes and the prominent teeth.”

“But Dylan, she hasn’t really done anything to me, except in a dream.”

“She’s stalking you. No way she appears at the hospital, at your apartment and then right here on our block by accident. She’s some kind of creep. Maybe if I can get a police presence on the street she’ll at least keep away.”

“I don’t want that!” Peter said anxiously.

Dylan frowned, “Why the hell not?”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy, Dyl, but I don’t think she’ll appear to them. She didn’t appear to you back in my apartment building, or to the medics or police.”

Dylan put his coffee mug on the table between them. “Peter, bubelah, the woman is a nut job. Her behavior is completely aberrant. Someone who does the things she does is not normal. Who the hell knows what she’ll do next! Maybe it won’t be in a dream.”

“I’m afraid of that too,” Peter said. He looked down into his coffee cup and watched the coffee move as he tilted the cup from side to side. It was his third cup since he woke.

“Don’t waste your time being afraid of some demented old woman. Granted, she’s done some very disturbing things and managed to pull off what I consider to be dramatic illusions, like going up into the ceiling. Someone who goes to the trouble to arrange a thing like that shouldn’t be at large.” Dylan grabbed his mug and took a long drink of the coffee. “I have pull at the police station, and I’m going to lay it on thick. You’ve seen me in court.”

Peter listened.

Dylan smiled. “I’m going to be charmingly persuasive and that woman, if they can get her in custody, Is never going to harass you again.”

Dylan took his mug to the sink, rinsed it out and looked at his watch. “Time to start getting ready for the day. Do you want the bathroom first?”

“Let me just get my toothbrush and toothpaste,” Peter answered, “I can do that at the sink in the kitchen while you’re in the bathroom.”

Peter smiled as he watched Dylan’s backside, in its tighty whities, leave the room. Maybe, I’ll go out and buy a couple of pairs and see what effect it has on Dylan.

They kissed goodbye in the brownstone, and before they headed to their respective cars, Dylan said, “This weekend we go to your apartment and start the moving process. My secretary can take care of the moving van if you agree.”

“That’s great. Thank you.”

Dylan’s car was parked across the street at a meter that didn’t attract meter readers until after 9:00 a.m. Peter watched Dylan get into his car and had an urge to run across the street and give him one big public kiss, but instead he sighed, and went down into the garage. Soon he was heading north to Bronxville, his mind focused on why he hadn’t done what he’d felt like doing it.

Peter was hopeful when he discovered a police car parked just outside the school gates. David was talking to a policeman that Peter recognized as Officer Parker. As Peter approached, David turned. “Your friend Officer Parker is here to keep an eye on the school,” David grinned as if he’d made it happen.

“We decided to give you some surveillance for the rest of the week,” Officer Parker said.

Peter extended his hand, “Thank you, Officer Parker. This will do a lot to make the school and our parents feel much secure. I’ll make sure they know. Please feel free to make use of our facilities and stop by the cafeteria for coffee or breakfast or lunch. I’ll let our Head Chef know to expect you.”

“I already took the liberty,” David said.

“Excellent,” Peter said. “I’d better head to my office. Some of the parents already know about the ‘gift. There were many phone calls yesterday afternoon, and I’ll bet some new ones arrived today. It’s still a mystery how they knew about it. Oh, and Dave, another thing. Can you give Officer Parker a description of the woman who delivered the package?”

“Yeah,” Dave said. “She was pretty unforgettable actually. She was all wrapped up in a green overcoat, as if it was one of those bone chilling days in February. I said she was an old woman, but I’m not sure that she was really all that old. It was her face. It was very pinched almost as if she was in pain. But despite that, her eyes were large and very unusual.”

“Unusual in what way?” Officer Parker asked.

“They were large, like I said, and very bright, almost as if they were lit from inside. Oh, yeah, and her teeth. She had very large teeth; it looked as if she could hardly keep her lips over them.”

Peter swallowed hard. Officer Parker said to Dave, “She sounds like someone you’d recognize quickly if you saw her again,”

“Absolutely,” Dave said.

“I might have seen someone who looked like that,” Peter said to Officer Parker. “Several times,” he added, “and not at school.”

“Mr. McDonnell, I know you’ve got a busy day ahead of you, but will you jot down when and where you might have seen this person?”

“Of course, just as soon as I can. I’ll try to do it when I get up to my office. See you later.”

Peter hurried up the driveway, past The Enchanted Book Forest where he stopped, just for a moment, to make sure that there was nobody inside of the trees looking out at him. There wasn’t.

Peter entered the building and was soon sitting at his desk and turning on his computer. My office is no longer safe, he thought as his computer warmed up. I’ve been attacked in here. He felt a chill despite the warm air coming up through the floor vent.

Peter logged in to his computer and scanned the slew of other emails and none needed instant attention, so he opened a word document and quickly made the list that Officer Parker had requested. His mind played back a vision of her, as he had first seen her in the shadows under the stairs. Hideous, he thought.

He printed the short list and was about to take it down to the front gate when Milo and Carlos walked in.

“Peter,” Milo said, “we were hoping to repair the floor today. It’s not a big job, but it will take several hours at least. Mary said that Barbara will let you use her office in the library. She has a lot of classes, so she won’t be using it.”

“That’s very nice of Barbara. I’ll thank her. Milo, can you give me a few minutes to decide what I need to bring with me to the library?”

“Yeah, of course. Will it be okay if we come back after arrivals?”

“Perfect,” Peter said. He hated to miss arrivals, but every so often there were circumstances, like this one, that just demanded immediate attention.

For a moment, Peter thought the biggest issue was going to be his computer, but then he remembered that one of the glories of the server network was that you could log on as yourself on any computer in the school and have access to all your files and email. I guess, I’ll just take my backpack…and my coffee mug.

Mary knocked at the office door, and they exchanged information. “If you need me, Peter, just give me a call,” Mary said. “And, good news, Lydia called and approved the letter. They’re sending it out special delivery so parents will receive it today. That should cut down on those phone calls.”

“Great news! Now, I can send an email blast to the faculty and tell them what happened and about the assembly tomorrow morning. The other good news is that Milo thinks they can do the floor in just one day, so I’ll cope.”

“Do you have a copy of today’s schedule?” Mary asked.

“Right here,” he patted his backpack. “I’ll see you at some point, I’m sure,” Peter said. “Oh, before I go to exile in the library, I have to stop at the gate, I have a paper that the Officer stationed there wanted.”

Mary waved him away, “I’ll take care of that. You have enough to think about. Just don’t lose your schedule.”

Peter grinned; Mary was the clockwork that kept him running throughout the day. “Thank you, worker of wonders,” he said and left the office.

Barbara Robinson was the Elementary Division’s gregarious librarian. Peter once told her that she had more energy coursing through her than Disneyland. Barbara greeted Peter as he entered the library where two fifth grade girls were checking out books. “Hi, Mr. McDonnell they chanted like clockwork.”

“Hi, Betsy and Aria. What books do you have there?”

Betsy held up Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and Aria held up another copy of the same book.

“We have a book club and read the same book each month,” Aria said.

“Then we have a playdate and sleepover and talk about the book,” Betsy added.

“That’s terrific! Can I join?”

The girls giggled deliciously and said, “Ye-es,” knowing that it probably wasn’t going to happen.

Peter laughed and said, “I wish I could. You’re going to have a lot to talk about with that Potter book, it might be my favorite.”

The girls exchanged glowing looks.

Barbara said over their heads, “Go right on into the office. I cleaned all my junk off the desk. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks a million, Barbara,” Peter said and went to the back of the library where the office was. Peter took a moment to look over the library space. It was possibly the room he was most proud of in the school.

Two stories high, the library boasted a collection of over 2000 titles and a monthly selection of children’s literary magazines. The walls were covered with framed illustrations from famous children’s books and the second floor was an open space for computer work. It was primarily grades 3-6 that utilized that space.

Smiling, and feeling lighter than he’d felt in days, Peter went into the office and logged onto the computer. It was just as Peter was opening his emails again that Mary knocked at the door and then hurried in.

“Peter, you’re not going to love this. Matilda just told me that you’ve got calls from parents.” Matilda Ocasio was the Head Secretary in the Main Office with Betty Owens as her assistant and hirer of substitute teachers. “Apparently, though I don’t know how, the story of the acid leaked out and some parents want to speak to you. Matilda said that they were in panic mode.” Mary put a long list of name and phone numbers on the desk.

“Do you have any idea who might have leaked the story?” Peter asked.

“You know my office is like Grand Central Station, and if it was a teacher they would have come to ask me about it.”

Peter nodded. “I hope it wasn’t Dave. He has very good relations with the parent body; I hope he didn’t get too cozy and spill the story.”

Mary winked, “I’ll call Dave and find out. I’ll call you and let you know.”

“Thank you, and wish me luck.”

Mary looked miserable for him, “Good luck. You’ll pull it out of the fire; you always do.”

“You’d better clear my schedule, except for my class, I have no idea how long this will take, and I hope I can keep it from spreading further before they get my letter.”

“No problem,” Mary said. She smiled and hurried off.

Peter spent hours on the phone returning calls. He had scanned the list and decided to call the most volatile parents first.

Frank Verona was his first call. Frank’s wife, Claudia, was on the Parents Association and she needed a lot of attention. The fact that she’d moved the call to Frank was a power move for sure.

“Frank, this is Peter McDonnel, I got your message.”

“Thanks for calling, Peter. How are we dealing with a maniac sending acid to a school filled with kiddies? How do we know that he hasn’t sent that acid to Food Service? What are we doing about this, Peter?”

Peter was on the phone with Frank Verona for almost forty-five minutes. He let him know that only one box was delivered by a person passing herself off as someone’s grandparent. He told about the police’s involvement and their presence. He also eased Frank’s concern about food, by telling him that food deliveries all arrived in sealed boxes from the distributor. Any tampered box would be automatically discarded as part of Food Service’s procedures, and so far that had never happened. He went on to tell Frank, as he would each subsequent parents about the letter they would be receiving today and about the assembly on Wednesday.

By this time, Frank’s voice was fifty percent lower in volume as Peter finished telling him what the school had done to keep on top of the situation. “I appreciate your involvement and support,” Peter said. “If you could possibly share our conversation with any other parent you know who might be anxious, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“I sure will, Peter, and thank you for returning my call. I bet you’ve got a lot more, so I won’t keep you. As usual, it sounds like you’re handling it very well. Good luck, and please let us know if we can help.”

“I will. Oh, one more thing, if I may ask. How did you hear about this before my letter reached you which should be today.”

“I think Claudia got a call from someone’s grandmother, but she never gave Claudia her name.”

“Thank you, Frank, and please tell Claudia that with the police’s help, and the faculty’s we’re keeping the kids safe.”

Peter fell back in his seat; his stomach had gone straight into a knot. He gazed at his list. Only eighteen more calls to make and he felt as if an avalanche had fallen on him. Claudia got a call from someone’s grandmother! The knot in his stomach turned into a boa constrictor curling around his intestine. Could it be the same grandmother who delivered my cologne?

Peter returned calls until food service sent Natalie, one of the team, to bring Peter his usual lunch of salad with a plop of tuna and a diet coke.

“Bless your heart, Natalie and tell Chef Dean ‘thank you’ too, please.”

“I will, Peter, oh…” She reached into her apron and pulled out a beautiful red delicious apple. “…I almost forgot your dessert. I know you love apples.”

Peter smiled and Natalie hurried back to the dining room. Peter looked at his watch; it was twelve fifteen, that meant that the third and fourth grades were at lunch. At one o’clock the fifth and sixth grades would be at lunch and Peter would be teaching his fourth grade glass; the one slot Mary had made sure to preserve for him.

Peter considered having his lunch while continuing his calls; the list had dwindled considerably as his messaging had gotten more facile with each call. It also seemed that the parent network was working and those folk he had spoken to had passed on his message. Two of his calls had thanked him and told him they heard from Claudia and Frank. Another two had heard from Elaine Brownstein.

Peter started on his salad, but quickly discovered that his stomach didn’t like when food landed there. Peter stood up and walked around the small office.

It feels like things just keep closing in. He thought of the note left in his garbage and the word on the note. That brought back his strange encounter with Jim Kellen in the Enchanted Book Forest, and the last thing he’d heard as he left. I know i heard it, but it didn’t sound like Jim saying it.

Peter sat down and tried to eat the tuna which he thought might be easier to digest than the salad. It felt better for about two swallows and then his stomach hurt more, and he dropped his fork. He looked at the apple; he loved apples, and this one looked crisp and red, but his stomach told him that he hated that apple.

Peter emptied the lunch into the black garbage bag in the waste paper basket and left the apple on the desk. Maybe Barbara will eat it.

Despite his discomfort, he finished the remaining calls and then rushed to teach his fourth graders. Maybe it was the natural adrenalin he felt when he was with the children, but his stomach felt better for the 45 minutes they read, and acted the scene where the Rustics rehearse “Pyramus and Thisby” until Bottom, with the head of an Ass, comes on the scene and they all flee. The kids found that scene hysterical and their laughter, as they fell on the floor, had Peter hysterical with them. Laughing definitely made him feel a little better, but just a little.

After his class, he went back to his office to see the process of the repairs. It was now a quarter to two and Milo and Carlos were gone…and so was the hole. The room had the pleasant smell of fresh wood and the kind of glue they used to give out in schools until they discovered that sniffing it made you high. For a few moments, Peter forgot about his stomach, but perhaps the pain resented this and made a painful comeback.

“They did a great job,” Mary said, she was standing in the doorway. “ And I spoke to David. He hasn’t told a soul about the gift or the lady.”

“Fantastic,” Peter said.

“They told me to tell you that they also fixed the ceiling down in the locker room.”

“Bless their hearts,” Peter said, then he swallowed hard. His stomach pains had moved up into his chest. He reflexively put his hand over his heart.

Mary moved into the room. “Peter, are you alright? Are you having a breathing problem and chest pains. I’m going to call Pat.” Patricia McKennan was the school nurse.

“No. No, you don’t need to, I’m alright. Those calls I had to make weren’t easy. You know how that can make you tense all over. I’m going to do dismissal and then leave a little early if I can.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Mary said. “I know you were here late yesterday, and you’re always the first one on the campus. Please, take care of yourself for a change. We all need you. Are you sure you don’t want me to call Pat?”

Peter grinned despite his discomfort. “I love you, Mary, but honestly; this is just the price of tension. Your Richard is a very lucky man.”

“Tell him that the next time he drops by,” Mary said. She ran out as her phone rang. Peter hoped it was not another anxious parent.

Peter went back to the library to gather his backpack and thank Barbara for surrendering her office for the day. She was in the process of setting up a display of Gary D. Schmidt books for grades four to six. Before he could say anything, Barbara spotted him and looked up. “I am determined to get Gary Schmidt for author’s day in the spring.”

“Thank you so much for letting me use your space. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience for you, Barbara. And if you get him, let me know. I’ll clear my calendar; I love his books, especially Lizzy Bright and the Buckminster Boy. Thanks again, Barb.”

“Anytime,” she said and returned to her display

Peter turned to leave, but something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned and gazed up at the second floor. For an instant, Peter caught a glimpse of bright eyes looking over the balcony that surrounded the computer center. He blinked, and they were gone. Peter dropped his backpack and hurried to the stairs leading up to the second floor.

“Everything okay?” Barbara asked.

“Oh…yes…I just wanted to see something.” With his heart pounding, he reached the computer mezzanine and looked around. There was nothing there. A strong, but almost invisible mesh ran from the balcony to the roof of the library. The strong mesh insured that no student, or teacher, could somehow fall. Peter scanned the mesh, half prepared to see the woman clinging, like a spider to the mesh, but there was nobody up there with him. I know what I saw. Those eyes are unmistakable.

The buzzer sounded for dismissal and Peter quickly descended and left the library. He moved quickly sdown to the front of the school where vans and cars waited for his students. It was hard for him, as he smiled and waved at the departing kids to banish the eyes he had seen up on the second floor of the library. I wish I could believe that I was only imagining what I saw, but I know I didn’t. Just like I didn’t imagine any of the rest of it. I know what I saw, and I know that something completely inexplicable is happening to me. Then he thought of Dylan’s doors and the letter he had received. And because of me, it’s happening to Dylan too.

When he got back to his office, Mary jumped up from her desk, a sure sign that she had something important to share with him. They went into Peter’s office. “Did you send the faculty a message about the acid and the assembly tomorrow. A lot of them know about the work being done in your office and some of them asked what happened. Of course I didn’t tell them anything. I just said that it needed repair, but they know something’s up. ”

“I already sent them a message along with a copy of the letter I sent to the parents. It explains everything and what’s going to happen at the assembly tomorrow. I’m hoping to keep the assembly short, but I’ll also let teachers know that I’d be happy to talk to their kids, in the classrooms if they would like. My guess is that most of them will be fine without me, which would be great, because I know I have several meetings tomorrow along with that observation in Jim Kellen’s classroom.”

“He’s such a pain in the neck,” Mary said bluntly. “I hope it goes well so you don’t have more aggravation. I’m worried about you, Peter. You don’t look good at all. You’re pale and you’re perspiring. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you perspire, even when you’re dashing around the campus.”

“I’m okay, Mary, really. Honestly, it’s just the stress of those calls earlier today, but I’m feeling better than I did.”

“Really?” Mary didn’t sound as if she believed one word. “How about I call a cab to take you home? You can relax and not worry about the stupid traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway.”

“I might do that, but I’ve got a little more to do before I go home. Not a lot, I promise.”

“Hmm. I hope so. I’m going to call you when I get home and you’d better not still be here. Feel better, and really consider the taxi.” She gave Peter a hug and went to the outer office to get her purse and coat from the closet they shared..

After Mary left, one of the Kindergarten teachers, Ann Short, stopped by. She had opened his email and just wanted to see if he was okay.

“I’m fine, thank you, Ann. You’ll probably see the police car when you leave, if it’s still there. We’ve got good protection, and David knows that we don’t accept any mysterious packages.”

Ann nodded. “Do you think this is some sort of attack on the school? Has the Middle and Upper Schools gotten any packages like the one you got?”

“No,” Peter chuckled weakly. “We were the lucky ones. Dave shared a description of the woman who dropped off the package with the police, and they told me that they’re going to check her out in their records.”

“That’s good. I also think the assembly tomorrow is a terrific idea; a teachable moment.”

“Thank you. You go on home and have a good evening. I’ve got a few more anxious parents to reassure.”

Ann smiled and wished Peter a good evening.

Peter had tried to hide his labored breathing, but it was hard when he had to converse. He looked around his office. The bookcases filled with children’s books and books on education and child psychology. It was a friendly space with framed artwork from students and some kid friendly little figures on his windowsill. He generally felt cozy in the room, but right now he felt too sick to feel anything but a desire to leave.

Peter returned four calls that turned out to be easy; they had already gotten the letter and were basically just checking in. When he was done, he closed his computer. If anyone else calls, I don’t want to know about it.

Walking toward the parking lot at the front of the school, Peter was stopped by Dave.

“I gave Officer Parker a description of the woman with the package, and I stressed those eyes and the teeth. Mary gave them your list, and Officer Parker said they would help in identifying her if she has a record.”

“That’s great, Dave.”

“You know something Peter. You don’t look very good. Are you sick? Should I get some help here?”

“Oh no, David, really. I just had a stressful day with parent calls. You can imagine.”

“Yeah. I can,” the Security Guard said. “Here, give me your backpack. I’ll walk you to your car.”

When they got to the car, Dave said, “Look, Pete. Let me drive you home. I leave in just ten minutes. Won’t that be better than driving when you don’t feel wonderful?”

Peter was very touched. “You are the best, but honestly. I’m really okay. I would definitely take you up on your offer if I didn’t think I could get home safely.”

“Hmm. Okay, but if you start out and don’t feel right, come back. Will you do that? I’ll be here until 6:00.”

“I promise. I hope you have a have a good night when you leave, and say ‘Hello’ to Sylvia.”

“I will.” Peter got his second hug of the afternoon, as Dave practically put him into his seat and closed the door.

“Take care, Peter. We all need ya.”

“Thank you, Dave. See you tomorrow.”

Peter started the car fervently hoping that he was going to be better and that he would see everyone tomorrow. I have to feel better. Please, Jesus, I’ve got an assembly to run.

During the entire drive, Peter worried that he wouldn’t make it and cursed himself for being foolish and not taking Mary’s advice or letting Dave drive him home. The Cross Bronx Expressway was its usual crawl to the West Side Highway and even putting on some light music on the radio failed to ease his breathing or the discomfort in his stomach. At several points, the pain got so bad that Peter was nearly bent over the steering wheel. He turned on the radio to try and distract himself.

Just as he made the corkscrew turn from the Cross Bronx to the south bound side of the West Side Highway, Sinatra started singing, “Here’s That rainy day.” The song was about “left over dreams’ and ‘worn out wishes.’

There was something about the melancholy lyrics, maybe the meter, that made Peter remember one of the ‘Patty Cake’ verses.

‘Slowing your heart, stilling your breath, No one can help you,

no one will care.’

Peter was suddenly more afraid than he’d been since the unpleasant symptoms had started. His hand reached for his cell phone plugged into the car for charging and on the seat next to him.. He was going to ask Siri to dial Dylan’s number. He wanted to hear his voice in case anything happened. In case he didn’t make it home. Peter shook his head and kept his hands on the steering wheel. I’m not going to call Dylan and scare him to death. There’s nothing he can do. I made the decision to drive home, and I’m going to do it, and I’m going to get there.

Peter hardly knew how he had gotten to the parking garage and then up into the Brownstone. There seemed to have been painful lapses in his awareness of the trip, But thank God, I’m home. Jesus, thank you, he thought, then he said it aloud as he locked the door behind him. Dylan wasn’t home yet, but Peter was glad. He hurried to the bathroom and took a pill bottle out of the medicine chest. It was clonazepam that his doctor had prescribed for anxiety. It was several months old, but Peter opened it and took one of the pills with water. He knew it would make him tired, but if what he was experiencing was an anxiety attack, it would probably help.

Peter put the pills back in the medicine chest and made himself some tea, Warm liquid will make the pill work faster. He sat in one of the comfortable armchairs in the living room and sipped his tea. He wasn’t going to do any work this evening. He was just going to take care of himself. He felt a little better already. Just being home, This is my home now. My home is where Dylan is. Peter found that he was looking forward to going to his apartment with Dylan and finalizing what he would discard and what he would bring to the brownstone.

He stipped the tea and his breathing eased, and his stomach relaxed. Peter reached down and unlaced his shoes. He moved, with his tea, to the sofa and sat with his feet up and a wonderfully firm yellow cushion supporting his back. Opposite him was a matching cushion. He stared at the pattern of green vines sprouting red flowers on it and thought it was beautiful and restful. His eyes drooped, and he sipped some more tea, before putting the cup down on a coaster on the coffee table. As his whole body eased with relief from the pain and strained breathing, he dropped off to sleep.

Peter didn’t wake up until Dylan, like a Disney prince, but with far more sensual intent, leaned over him and kissed him on the lips and kept his lips there as though he were staking a claim.

“Perfect,” Dylan chuckled, as he finally drew back, “your eyelids actually fluttered like the Sleeping Beauty.”

“Uh uh,” Peter said, “Snow White had the fluttering eyelashes.

“Damn. We’re going to have to watch both those films on Disney and lay bets on whose eyelashes flutter.” Dylan sat on the couch and moved Peter’s feet onto his lap. “You must have had one helluva day. I don’t remember you sleeping after work. At least not during the time you’ve been here.”

“I did it in the apartment sometimes,” Peter said. He had already resolved not to tell Dylan anything about not feeling well. It was an anxiety attack; that’s why the clonazepam worked.

“I’m starved,” Peter said, trying to get up, but Dylan held his feet where they were. “Hey, I want to get up.”

“But I don’t want to let you,” Dylan said.

“The Prince let Snow White get up,” Peter said grinning.

“Nope. He picked her up.”

Dylan shifted Peter’s feet to the sofa, stood up and in a moment, then scooped Peter off the couch and up into his arms.

“Good lord. You know I feel like an idiot like this,” Peter said, his face bright red.

“Tough. I feel great. Princely and romantic.”

“I feel romantic, but also hungry. I was so busy today I hardly ate anything at work. Can we eat first and then be romantic?”

Dylan sighed. “I see that you’re determined to kill this fairy tale moment.”

“Sorry, but this Snow White needs fuel.”

“I oughta drop Snow on her ass,” Dylan said, lowering Peter.

“Thank you for preserving what’s left of my manly dignity,” Peter said. As his feet touched the floor. He put his arms around Prince Dylan and gave him a proper thank you. “Now food!”

Over dinner, Peter told Dylan about the maintenance men’s remarkable job of repairing his floor and how someone had leaked the story to the parents ahead of his letter causing a flood of anxious phone calls.

“That must have been a royal pain in your ass,” Dylan said. “How did that go?”

“Ultimately I was able to calm parents’ concerns, but I was on the phone with this one father for…” Peter stopped as he cell phone rang. “Hello. Oh, hi Mike. How are you? What’s up?” Peter covered the phone and whispered, “It’s Mike Phelan, our tech man.”

Dylan nodded and Peter put the phone on speaker.

“Peter, I uncovered something interesting that might be relevant to the Patty Cake verse you gave me from Thomas D’Urfey’s play. You know the part where it says, ‘And prick it’ at least six time in succession?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “That part disturbed me when I found the original verse. It just sounded so violent, not like someone testing the dryness of some cake. I just wanted to tell you that you’re on speaker so my partner, Dylan can hear too.”

“Hi, Dylan,” said Mike, and continued. “The server turned up this information. In 1649, they had a horrible procedure they employed when they suspected that a woman was a witch. It was based on the belief that the body of every witch had a special spot they called the witch’s mark. The mark could be identified, because when you pricked it, the accused witch felt no pain. The torturous part was that they had to find the spot, so they often pricked the poor woman over and over and over. It was an excuse to engage in brutal torture. They would repeatedly drive some sharp object, often a long thorn or nail, into their victim, until crippled with pain, they confessed to being a witch.”

“I’ve heard about a lot of other ways they tortured an accused witch, but this pricking business is new to me,” Dylan said.

“I hope that this hasn’t ruined your dinner or your evening,” Mike said, “but I thought you might want to know.”

“I absolutely do, and I’m very grateful,” Mike. “I wonder if D’Urfey knew all of this when he used it in his play.”

“Maybe we’ll find that out,” Mike said. “The server will continue to look into the verse for the rest of this week, then I have to deploy it for a sixth grade research project.”

“Of course,” Peter said. “Again, I appreciate this very much. It adds to a very strange story that I hope to be able to share someday.”

The conversation ended and Peter turned to Dylan, “That’s it, Dylan. I know it; there’s a connection between that story of what they did to poor women to the crazy things that have been happening since I heard those kids sing that second verse.” Peter shook his head and put one hand to his forehead. Dylan, can you imagine how many poor women were stabbed repeatedly with pins?” Peter said. “What did 17th century pins look like.” Peter hit images and a picture opened.

Dylan stared at the picture. There was also a note that said that sometimes long thorns were used as pins.

“Do you think that someone is trying to get even for what happened to those women all those years ago?” Peter asked.

Dylan continued to stare at the picture of the pins.

Peter followed Dylan’s eyes and put a hand on his arm. Dylan turned. “Dyl, we need to find out why this is happening to me. Those verses; they all come true. One of them happened to me today.”

“When were you going to tell me this?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you; I didn’t want to worry you.” Peter had memorized the verses and he repeated the one that had happened today.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, I love you to death,

Slowing our heart, stilling your breath,

No one can help you, no one will care,

Clap out your Patty Cake, give in to despair.”

Peter told Dylan about how sick he had felt when he was making the phone calls. “I honestly thought it was anxiety, and when I came home I took a klonopin and it worked. That’s why I was asleep.”

“I feel like ringing your neck. Why the hell didn’t you call me? Don’t do that again. Promise me right now that you’ll never do that again. If you’re sick, or if I’m sick, we call the other one. Deal?”

Peter nodded his head, “I promise.” Then he said, the next verse is odd. He recited.

Patty Cake, Patty Cake, sun set, sun rise,

Who can believe what they see with their eyes.

Two little men now joined in surprise,

There’s so much more than they can surmise.

“That was the verse on the door, wasn’t it,” Dylan said. I wasn’t a question. “I don’t understand that one at all.”

“I don’t either,” Peter said. His brow furrowed. “What are we supposed to see?”

(to be continued)

CHAPTER 20:

Peter was having a frustrating high school dream in which he knew he had to take an important test, for which he was completely unprepared, and on top of that he can’t find the testing classroom. The school halls were completely unfamiliar, and the classroom doors were closed and dark within. His agitation growing, Peter dashed down corridors and through swinging doors until he finally found a door with a big sign that read “TESTING.” Feeling both relieved and apprehensive, he pulled the door open and woke up.

He was lying on his back with Dylan’s arm heavy across his chest. Peter smiled and lifted the limb gently onto the bed. Dylan moaned but didn’t awaken.

Peter looked at the clock. In fifteen minutes, the alarm would go off. Quietly, Peter turned off the alarm and slid out of bed. I’ll wake Dylan. It will be much gentler than the damn loud buzzing of that clock.

Peter hurried into the bathroom and washed, brushed, combed and shaved before returning and waking Dylan with kisses that Peter enjoyed if Dylan didn’t. Apparently, he did enjoy them, because in less than a minute an arm wrapped around Peter and tried to pull him back into bed.

“No! No!” Peter said pulling free. “Get thee behind me Satan and get up and get dressed.”

Dylan groaned and released Peter. “You cock tease!”

“Cock tease? I just gave you a few very affectionate kisses is all.”

“I’m easily triggered, babe,” Dylan said.

“Does it make you feel triggered to know how much I have to pee?”

“Begone,” Dylan said and shoved Peter off the bed.

Laughing Peter said, “Fooled ya,” and dodged Dylan’s open handed swat.

In the kitchen, Peter turned on the coffee maker and laid out the high protein, low sugar breakfast cereals that the two favored. Dylan came out of the bathroom, dressed and with his curly hair lotioned into a tidy smoothness. “Don’t you have that observation in creepy Jim’s class today?” he asked.

“I have my assembly with the kids first, but yes. I’m hoping that Jim’s lesson will be a good one. If it’s not….well, let’s just say that I’m hoping it’s good and that it’s the beginning of a new commitment on his part.”

“Optimist,” Dylan said, between crunching a mouthful of cereal. “In m opinion in first chapter of a book sucks, dont expecrt the rest to be any better.
Then he put down his spoon and leaned on the table, his face taking on a serious expression.

“Crap,” Peter said. “I know I’m in trouble when you put on your courtroom face.”

“I want you to call me if you see the bitch with the glowing eyes and the long teeth or you have another one of those, I don’t know what to call them, out of body dream experiences.”

“And what will you do?” Peter asked. “Come flying to the school after it’s happened?”

Dylan was silent, thinking. “We need to do some digging into your ancestry and see where your ancestors where in the 17^th century. I may know someone who can help us do that and do it pretty quickly. I’ll call him from my office this morning.”

Peter asked, “Who is this person?”

“His name is Dr. Edmund Opatashu. He’s a history professor at Columbia University and was a great help in one of my cases; it’s a long story. He’s very smart and has a vast database about people’s history.”

“Do you want to see if my family had anything to do with those witch prickers,” Peter said.

“I think it’s a good idea, don’t you?”

Peter nodded and looked at his watch. “Time to gobble and go,” he said.

The assembly was during the usual fifteen-minute homebase period. Peter anticipated that the assembly might last thirty minutes and had communicated this to the faculty.

Mary wanted to come to the assembly. “I really want to be there to offer any support I can, but I’d better stay here and man the phones.”

“Thank you, Mary. Just saying that makes me feel supported. I’ll see you after the assembly.”

Assemblies were held in the gymnasium which was the school largest ‘classroom’ space. Maintenance had set up the chairs according to the seating chart Peter had made up at the beginning of the year. Assemblies were held in the round so even children in the last row of the circle, were only three or four seats away from the center where presenters stood.

The music department provided entrance music for the classes and everyone stood at the seats until they were asked to take a seat. As this was not a standard assembly, Peter had told the faculty that they would dispense with the pledge of allegiance and the singing of the first verse of “America, the Beautiful.”

When the classes were gathered, Peter invited everyone to take their seats.

“Good morning everyone,” Peter said, and got a nice loud response. “This isn’t a regular assembly, but it’s an important one. We’re going to talk about what you should do if you receive a gift from a stranger.”

The children in the school were bright and hands flew up. Peter took about twenty responses and then told the children how he had gotten package without a name and how it was handed over to the police. Peter made sure to end it with a visual concensus by asking, “Do we accept presents from strangers? Raise you hand if your answer is ‘no.’ All the assemblage raised their hands, and Peter felt fairly confident that the message had been internalized. The assembly had only run five minutes over the fifteen-minute target time. They were dismissed class-by-class and within three minutes Peter was back in his office.

Mary asked how the assembly went.

“It seemed very successful. After my class and Jim’s observation, I’ll write an email letter to the parents letting them know that I felt the assembly was successful and asking them to reinforce the message at home.”

Peter went to his class filled with positive energy from the students’ responses. He felt even more buoyant after his fourth graders plunged into the next scene in “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and even seemed enthused by a homework assignment in which they were asked to pretend they were Puck and were sent by Oberson to use magic to make our world a better place. How would they use magic to accomplish that?

Next stop was Jim Kellen’s classroom, which Peter entered with invisible crossed fingers. As soon as he entered the classroom, Jim smiled and said, “Boys and girls, say ‘good morning,’ to Mr. McDonnell.” The students respectfully responded and Peter thought, I wish he wouldn’t do that in that regimented way. It’s appropriate, but I hate the way the kids turn into puppets. Aloud, and in a completely natural manner, Peter replied, “Hey! I love to visit your classroom and get to see you and Mr. Kellen” Then he took a seat at the back of the room. Half the class turned to wave at him and he waved back and then did a smiling gesture with his head that signalled them to turn to their teacher.

The Smart Board was on and Jim had written “Today We’re Going to Talk About Hannah’s Sacrifice.” This was an appropriate topic for discussion for The Devil’s Arithmetic in which a Jewish girl from the present, who considers her religious rituals boring, finds herself back in the time of the holocaust and in the body of a girl called Chaya who eventually goes to the gas chamber to save another girl.

“Let’s start by talking about the problems in the book.”

As hands went up, Jim had each student come to the Smart Board and write down one of the problems in the story.

Peter always brought his laptop to observations and kept it on his lap where he could touch type notes about the observation.

Thank God, he thought, during a pause in his typing. He’s picked an appropriate topic and is letting the kids build their own foundation for Hannah’s sacrifice by establishing cause and effect.

The lesson had basically ended, and the students were now discussing the sacrifice and why Hannah makes it, when Mary came in to tell Peter that Officer Parker was on the phone. Peter got up and saw Jim turn to him. Peter smiled and nodded his approval before leaving. I’ll come back and speak to him after I take this call and teach my own class. Maybe with positive feedback, he’ll continue leading the class and using the Smart Board and other creative outlets to enrich his lessons.

“Hi, Officer Parker,” Peter said. “Thank you for holding for me. I was doing an observation.”

“Mary told us. That’s fine. Listen, Mr. McDonnell, we didn’t find anyone in our database. We didn’t really have too much to go on. Just the eyes, as you described them, and the prominent teeth. The teeth were actually a good descriptor. Unfortunately, a lot of people in the database matched that description. Do you carry a cell phone?”

“Oh yes. I always have my cell phone.”

“Good idea. If you see this person again, grab that cell phone and try and get a picture. If you get a picture, we can send it out statewide, like a fishing net, and see if we get any bites.”

“I will absolutely do that,” Peter said. “And I appreciate your support. I’m going to devise an assembly with a police related topic and ask you if you’d like to be our guest speaker.”

There was a pause and chuckle and then Parker said, “You bet. We often do assemblies on street smarting kids.”

“Perfect. We’ll talk, and meanwhile I hope I don’t ever see that woman again, but if I do I’ll have my camera.”

“I think you will see her again, Peter,” the Officer said, his voice suddenly low and more serious, “just be ready.”

Peter was trembling, “Uh. I will.”

“I didn’t mean to rattle you, but the kind of person you’ve described is on some kind of sick trip and you’re her target. Avoid being alone if you can and never forget that phone.”

“I won’t.”

“Great. Let me know if you get a picture, or if you’re crazy enough to want me for an assembly.”

The bit of humor helped after the warning, “I will and we’ll do that assembly. Have a great day Officer…”

“My name’s Roy, and I hope you have a great day, an uneventful day, Peter.”

“You too, Roy.” As Peter hung up, he thought, What is it about a police officer telling you his first name that makes you feel extra safe?

Peter was gathering his teaching materials, as Mary knocked at the door and tapping her watch said, “Your class.”

“I’m on my way,” Peter said hurried past her.

After his class, Peter was eager to get to Jim’s room and tell him that he enjoyed the class and how he used the smartboard and directed the children to think deeply about the novel, and, finally, that he would be writing it up and sharing it with Jim.

Peter arrived at an empty classroom and remembered that it was lunch time for the fifth grade. Peter noticed a stack of post its on Jim’s desk and decided to leave him a quick message on one. He took a pen out of his inside jacket pocket and went behind the desk to write.

Peter peeled off a blank post it and then he saw it. Jim’s laptop was opened and there was a picture that Peter knew too well. It was a picture of a woman with most of her clothing removed and women armed with long, terrifying, looking pins.

Oh my God, Peter thought. What is this? Is Jim somehow involved in this whole thi…. The picture was fading to black, as he stared and it, and then three dots of light appeared in the dark and slowly took on the form of the familiar bright eyes and long prominent teeth. Peter was frozen in fear for just an instant and then he fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, clicked on the camera icon. In another moment he had snapped several pictures.

As Peter put the phone back in his pocket, the laptop screen begins to distort. The woman’s face becomes a twisted spiral and Peter found himself transfixed, by the whirlpool of moving colors. He found it difficult to focus or break away as the colors seem to expand beyond the screen. At first Peter felt as if he were falling over, but he didn’t fall. He seemed suspended in the colors that now filled all of his vision.

The spiraling begins to slow and break apart and beyond it, Peter sees another scene materialize, and he was part of the scene. He was securely strapped to a large wooden plank that was slightly tilted back. Ropes affixed his upper chest, wrists and ankles to the board. His feet were spread widely apart and his clothes. gone.

He recognized his surroundings. It was the living picture he had seen on Jim’s screen before the woman appeared. The Witchfinder General sat on a dais behind a large desk. He wis wearing a white robe and a pointed hat, something like the Ku Klux Klan wore, except that a red cross has been painted or attached to the hat, so that it became the most prominent feature. The room was dark except for candles on the Witchfinder General’s table. To the sides of the table are two men with long pins in their hands.

The men moved to either side of Peter, who is tied so securely that he can’t even buck against the board.

“Confess and thou shalt be spared the pricking. Deny the charge of witchcraft and thou wilt feel these pins on every inch of thy body till we find the witch mark.”

“I’m not a witch,” Peter said, his voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar. “There isn’t such a thing as witches.”

“I feared thou would be bold in such a manner. Well we can be bold too. Proceed.” The Witchmaster General made a dismissive move of his hand; the meaning of which was clear.

“Confess!” shouted one of the men and drove the pin into one of Peter’s thighs.

Peter first gasped and then shrieked, “You fucking asshole!”

“Filth! The Witch dares to blaspheme. Continue with more aggressive action.”

Peter’s true torture began as the men, without any pattern to their work, jabbed him over and over in different parts of his body.

Peter screamed and struggled uselessly and then, as one man began to press a pin over his heart, and Peter looked down with wide eyes and his entire body shaking with pain and terror, the scene dissolved in the same way that it had appeared. The men vanished, the Witchmaster General disappeared and Peter was standing, unbound and fully dressed in Jim’s empty classroom.

There was no pain now, just the memory of the pricking continued to send signals to his nerves. As best he could, without removing his clothing, he felt all over his body, wherever a pin had struck, but there was no bleeding visible.

Peter took two tentative steps away from Jim’s desk and then hurried out of the classroom, half expecting a crowd of people who had heard him cry out, but there was no one in sight except two students coming from the bathroom who waved. His heart knocking in his chest, Peter managed to smile and wave back, before hurrying on.

I’ve got to send that picture to Roy right now and tell him …what will I tell him? That I was somehow transported to the 1700’s and underwent witch- pricking myself…! I didn’t just imagine that! I felt those pins! Peter froze just outside of his office. Somebody wanted me to feel what that was like? Why? He knew why. Someone, or some force, hated him and was punishing him. Or, was this all happening in his own mind, a mind that had somehow taken a very wrong turn. Had Dylan really seen words on his door. Or had it been a hysterical reaction to Peter; was Peter poisoning Dylan with his own sick fantasies?

Peter took out his cell phone and turned to photos. There it was. He shuddered as he stared at that now very familiar face. Frozen it was perhaps more terrifying than ever, but it was also reassuring. It can’t be my fantasy if it’s here in a photograph. Even in a photo, the woman’s eyes seemed to emanate light in waves. Her enormous teeth seemed to be moving, champing as if eager to bite. Peter shook his head and tapped off the display button. Then he drew a breath and moved into his office. Mary was sitting at her desk eating a sandwich with her coffee and reading her latest Stephen King novel. She had told him what it was, oh yes, The Shining a book about obsession and possession. Sounds familiar, he thought, then he greeted Mary and said, “Enjoy your lunch. I have to make a private phone if anyone needs me.” This as code for, “I can’t be interrupted.”

Peter went into his office and closed his door. The words obsession and possession returned to his mind as he sat down and turned on his display. He opened the photo app and scrowled down to recent photos and then across a batch of pictures of Daryl and he at Rockaway last summer. Peter got nervous; the last taken photo was just black; that familiar, terrifying face had gone black.

Please, Jesus no! Peter went into deleted photos. Maybe, in my hurry to close my phone, I deleted the picture. His deleted phone folder was empty. He hadn’t deleted any photos. Where else can I look? The trash! Not there. Google Drive. Maybe I dragged it and didn’t realize it. But he hadn’t.

Peter dug his heels into the floor and realized that he was fighting back tears. It’s so damn frustrating!

The rest of the day passed with Peter as an onlooker. Only the part of the brain that worked on automatic pulled him through as his mind struggled to find a logical explanation for what was happening. Peter kept reaching out to touch things, the tactile feel of the individual keys on his computer, the smooth wood of his desk, he even fingered the hole at the far end of his desk here the acid had burned right through. The wood inside the hole was rough. Rough felt real. He was trying to anchor himself to a reality that, being ‘pricked’ over and over while being tied helplessly to a board, had stolen away from him.

After dismissal, Peter wrote the email blast to the parent body describing the assembly program and asking them to reinforce the cautionary message at home. He had timely call from Lydia Jameson asking him how the assembly went and if he’d let the parents know. Crazily, Peter had a desire to tell Lydia about his experience in Jim Kellen’s classroom. She would tell him to suspend Jim until they could arrange a hearing. The idea of having that picture where students could see it was unacceptable, but Peter was pretty sure what Jim would say. He would deny that any such picture was on his laptop and then he’d turn it right on Peter and say that he’d pulled it up to destory Jim’s ‘outstanding reputation.’ He didn’t tell Lydia, but he knew he’d be checking Jim’s laptop as often as he could. He was shocked when he realized another reason why he wouldn’t confront Jim about the picture. It was because Peter had a horrible feeling that he had somehow conjured up the picture himself. God, he needed to share all of this with Dylan. Dylan had such a logical mind; somehow he’d make sense out of the whole impossible thing.

Mary had left as he was typing the letter to his parents and now he was going to do the same. His whole body throbbed with the need to unburden himself of his experience in Kellen’s classroom and the picture that had gone to black.

In the car, Dylan called Peter and spoke to him through the car speakers. "Hey babe, I’m craving some peanuty Thai food, how about you? I’ll pick it up if you agree.”

“I love you,” were the first words Peter said before he responded. “I’d love Thai.”

Dylan caught the sound of neediness in Peter’s voice. “What’s the matter, Bubelah? Something happened. What was it?”

“I can’t tell you know, I’m on the Cross Bronx, but I’ll tell you when I get home, okay?”

Dylan laughed,“Yeah, it’s almost impossible to talk about anything if you want together off the Cross Bronx alive. Just answer this, are you okay? Are you safe driving home?”

Peter laughed, “It feels like you’ve been asking me that a lot lately. Yes, I’m fine to drive home. See you back at the rebel base.”

“See you shortly kid.” Dylan chuckled.

As soon as Peter oened the door, he was hugged bby the wonderful rich aroma of the food. Dylan was in the kitchen, heating it up in the microwave and putting it on plates. He stopped everything when Peter came in and grabbed him in a hug and long kiss.

“You wanna sit down right now and tell me whatever it was that happened?”

“Yes, but I’m starving. Do you mind if we eat first?”

“Of course not,” Dylan said, “whatever you want. I’m not exactly calmly waiting to hear whatever went on today, but I’ll deal with my impatience once I havve some noodles in my boca.”

When they finished, Dylan took control. “We’re leaving everything in the sink; we’ll wash it later. I have to hear about your day, right now!”

Halfway through the story, Peter realized that he was having a hard time keeping events in sequence. “I’m so rattled, Dyl,” he said when he had finally succeeded in getting it all out. “It’s all impossible.”

Dylan sat back in his chair with his arms on the rests and the fingertips of his hands touching. He was deep in thought.

Peter got up from the couch. “I think I’m sick, Dylan. I really do. I think I’m having some kind of breakdown.”

Dylan got up and grabbed Peter’s arms in his hands. “You are not having a breakdown, but it’s fucking amazing that you’re not. You have been targeted, sweetheart. I’ve seen cases in court where people are targeted, and it can be incredible the lengths people go to in order to break someone down.”

“Who’s trying to break me down. Do you think it’s Jim Kellen?”

“I think Kellen is a sneak, a slacker and a drag on you and the school. Okay, he threw you one good lesson, but just watch. He’ll sag the moment you stop being on his case! Forget him. I want you to take your clothes off. All of them. Right now. I want to take a look at your body.”

Peter started to undress, but as he did he said, “You’re not going to find any marks. It was all in my mind.”

“Shut it!” Dylan snapped. He helped pull Jim’s undershirt over his head. Then he began his examination.

Peter was surprised at how methodically Dylan approached this, and how much like an E.M.T he seemed to be.

“See, there’s nothing.”

Dylan was looking at Peter’s chest. His fingers stretching the skin over Peter’s heart; the spot where the last pin was being pressed.

“What’s this?”

Peter looked down, but couldn’t see past Dylan’s hands.

“You’ve got a tiny wound just above your heart. It’s not much, but the skin was broken and its slightly red. We’re going to put some antiseptic on that and some gauze. We’ll check it in the morning and make sure there’s no sign of infection.”

Dylan removed his hands and Peter saw the tiny wound.

“You aren’t imagining anything, Pete” Dylan said, hugging his lover. “You’re someone’s target, and we’re going to find out who and why. I couldn’t reach Dr. Opatashu this morning, but I left a message and he’s calling me back tomorrow. He’ll help us. When you meet him you’ll see why I feel so certain about his help. He’s very special.”

(to be continued)

Chapter 21

Peter was awake long after Dylan had drifted off. He propped up his pillows and stared into the thin lines of light coming from the venetian blinds and thought about the man that Dylan felt so certain would help them. How can anyone help us with something so unexplicable? When did I step out of the world and into this horror movie dragging Dylan along with me? Peter turned his head to look at Dylan who always fell asleep on his left side. He’s so strong and logical. I have to get him to talk to me about how this whole thing is affecting him. He is all about facts and fusing those facts to answer any questions he has to deal with in court. But all of this craziness has got to be throwing him, at least a little. Peter rolled over to his left side and gritted his teeth. Is this craziness going to ruin everything? Everything was Dylan.

Then Peter thought about the history Professor, Dr. Opatashu, that Dylan felt so postively about. He wondered if this was someone who could wrap himself around the unexplainable events that had broken into their daily life. For the first time-Peter thought a word he had refused to consider before. Could someone who is a fact-based professor history and genealogy help with something that is supernatural?

What if Dr. Opatashu traces my family back to 1692 and finds out that one of my ancestrors was part of the witch trial in New England? What if one of them took part in the Witch-prickings? What then? How is that going to help with ..” his thoughts froze as he almost felt…”the torturing? Is that anything except a supernatural experience. That, or my mind going ‘bye bye?’ God, please, help me. Silently, Peter began reciting the prayer of contrition. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen.

Peter’s catholic upbringing kicked in, and he was almost surprised to find that going through this act had brought him a reprieve from his fears and confusion. With relief, came relaxation and the sinking into a sleep that had evaded him. The last thing he consciously thought was, "Maybe Dr. Opatashu is a sort of Gandalf with a PhD in magic as well as history.

* * *

When Peter arrived at school the next morning, he went straight to his emails to see if he had any feedback on the assembly letter. The first post, from the Staub family, and almost all of the ones that followed were very positive. A small group of parents, who Peter suspected, had spoken to each other, advocated for more security on the campus. Peter thought about that request and decided to ask Milo if Carlos could be spared for the rest of the week to be a sort of traveling part of Dave’s security team and patrol the campus and buildings while Dave monitored the front of the school. Carlos already had a walkie talkie so he could be communicated with by any teacher if need be.

Using his walkie talkie, Peter contacted Milo and asked him if that could work. Milo agreed just asking Peter if Carlos could help him if he had any big jobs as long as he had his walkie talkie turned on. Peter agreed and wrote back to those parents letting them know that they would have an extra man doing security for a short shile which would be extended if necessary. He considered adding, “At present that doesn’t seem to be the case,” but decided against it as it would be sure to result in a rebuttal. The truth was that maintenance could be called upon in an emergency at any time, so they were, in reality, a form of additional security.

Mary had arrived by this time, along with a large number of teachers. Elementary school educators were notoriously virtuous about arriving early and staying late. A lot of it had to do with the every changing classroom bulletin boards and attention to lesson plan details. The nine to three mantra of the ill-informed, or hopelessly moronic, would be blown away if those people visited Peter’s school.

“Mary,” Peter said, walking out to her desk, “good morning. I have a meeting I would like you to set up. I’d like to meet with Jim Kellen to go over his observation. I know he’s anxious, so I’d like to make it this week.”

“Your schedule is very tight, Peter. You have two parent meetings and four grade level meetings. Do you mind meeting with Jim on Friday after dismissal, if he’s available of course.”

“Not at all. That would be fine. Oh. Wait! Can you possibly stay after school and be here for that meeeting. I hope it doesn’t, but it has the potential for going ugly. In fact, don’t tell Dave what the situation is, but just tell him that I’ll be in a tricky meeting and might call upon him.”

Mary looked up, “Do you want to tell me more. Shall I come inside your office? This sounds serious.”

“I’d rather fill you in after the meeting. It might be just fine, so I don’t want to unecessarily prejudice you against my buddy, Jim.”

Mary snickered, “I already am,” she said, “on my own.”

They both laughed, and Peter headed down for arrivals. When he got back, Mary was waiting, “I set up the meeting with Jim. He gave me one of those awful grins that he thinks is genuine, and asked me if it’s going to be a good meeting. I told him that all I knew was that you were eager to talk about his observation. Is that okay?”

‘That’s fine,” Peter said.

“And I’ll be right out here with the walkie talkie if you need me to call Dave. Some faculty think Jim is sweet and very hard working, but between the two of us…” Mary leaned forward and whispered. “I think he’s a phony.”

Peter sighed. “Well, at least this latest observation was good.”

The day passed swiftly and the parent meetings he had were all positive and productive. After Mary left for the day, Peter went into his office to write up the meetings and finish off his emails for the day.

* * *

When Peter got home that evening, Dylan was still at work. Peter put some ice in a glass and slowly added cherry diet pepsi. I’m going to be an overstimulating slob and watch t.v. while I grade papers. Peter’s english class had been given the challenge of rewriting, in modern English, the scene where Titania awakens and sees Bottom with an Ass’s head. It was a real challenge for fourth graders, but he felt his students were up to tackling it.

He put on the t.v. and Wolf Blitzer welcomed him into the ‘Situation Room.’ Peter settled on the couch with the student papers on the coffee table.

Peter tuned out Blitzer as he read and commented on the first six papers, then he looked up. Blitzer’s eternally concerned expression looked even more dour that usual. He was commenting on a new show that had debuted on Netflix to mass controversy. It was a horror drama that had gotten very strong criticism for it graphic depiction of torture. Rotten tomatoes had given the show a 0 rating and reviews were just a collection of angry words: Vulgar, Irresponsible, Graphic and Revolitng. Groups were writing into Netflix demanding that the show be taken off the air. Peter stared as Blitzer warned his audience that the clip they were about to show contained graphic violence against a woman and should not be viewed by children. Blitzer provided a one minute delay to allow audiences to get any children out of the room. After that interval the trailer came on. Peter stood, frozen, as a screaming woman tied naked to a board, was stabbed by one of three witch prickers while the Witch Hunter’s face, at a high table, wore an intense expression that looked all too much like deep, dark, excitement.

Peter switched the channel, and found himself on CNN again. The woman screamed again, as another pin was driven into one of her breasts. He clicked the remote over and over and channel after channel was showing the same, seemingly endless clip.

“Even Disney!” Peter said aloud, as he heard Dylan’s key in the lock. Peter hurried to grab Dylan’s arm and pull him in front of the t.v.

“It’s on every channel,” Peter said.

“What is this?” Dylan asked. “Is this that Witch Pricker shit?” Dylan began flipping channels as Peter had done.

Peter couldn’t help whimpering, “Turn it off, Dylan….please.”

Dylan had put down the remote. Now he snatched it up again to do as Peter asked, but before he could do that, the witch pricking scene went dark. Then through the dark, a face appeared. Dylan whispered, “Is that her? The woman. The same one as in the apartment. The school library.”

“All those places…” Peter said.

The woman began to speak. Her voice sounds so much younger than she looks, Her eyes were as bright and large as ever, and the long teeth, just as disturbing. She began to recite:

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake, the present is the past,

The sins of the father last and last and last.

There must be restitution the devil gets his due.

And nothing in this world can exonerate you.”

The face faded back to black and almost immediately CNN was back on the air, as if there’d been no channel switching; Blitzer was reporting on a terrible plane accident. Both men watched the footage of the accident as if waiting for the t.v. to suddenly whisk them back to the pricking or the woman, or for Blitzer to comment on the clip he’d just shown. Only when it seemed clear that this wasn’t going to happen did Dylan turned off the set and pull out his cell phone.

“What are you doing, Dyl?” Peter asked.

“I want to see if anyone else saw what we saw.”

Peter stood there, peering up into Dylan’s hands as he typed into his search engine. After several investigations, Dylan put the phone back in his pocket and shook his head. ‘Nope! The rest of the world just saw the news and Netflix has no contested program. No witch prickers have appeared on anyone else’s screen.”

Dylan looked at Peter’s glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Diet cherry pepsi.”

Dylan shook his head, “I’m making myself a scotch and soda. You want the same?”

Peter nodded, he was typing something into his phone..

“What are you typing?”

“The Patty Cake verse, before I forget it.”

Dylan nodded and prepared the drinks as Peter continued to type. As soon as Peter was done, Dylan handed him a glass and said, “If it’s possible, put what we just saw out of your mind for a moment, and let me tell you about my conversation with Edwin Opatashu; I’m hoping that it might shed some light into the twilight zone. Wait! He faxed me some sheets for you to fill out.”

“Let’s sit at the dining room table,” Dylan said when he’d retrieved the sheets. “Fill in only what you know. Dr. O. advised you not to use any commercial daa base. He has vastly superior research data bases.”

Peter looked at the top sheet. It asked him to create a family tree going as far back as he remembered or was told about.

“Do you know a lot about your family’s history?” Dylan asked and then took a sip of his scotch.

“I can’t go back s far back as Dr. Opatashu might like, but there might be some patterns that will appear on the tree.”

“Such as?”

“You know that I lost my parents in a car accident just outside of Boston. A truck hit the side of my dad’s car as they were passing over a cloverleaf, and they went through the guardrail and fell over the side. They never caught the truck driver.”

“I knew about the accident, but I don’t think that you told me that they never caught the driver of the truck.”

Peter stared at Dylan. “With all that’s happened, I wonder if it really was an accident. My Granda Daniel McDonnell drowned.”

“You never told me this,” Dylan said.

“My grandparents lived in New England, in Rockport. They belonged to a golf and boat club and went out of a club yacht to go swimming and have a picnic lunch on the boat. My grandmother was on the boat with the wife of the couple that went with. Suddenly, my grandfather cried out in the water and went under. The other man made every effort to find him under the water, but there was no trace. They slowly drove the yacht hoping to at least find his body. They did. Nearly a mile from where he cried out they found him, floating face down in the water.”

“Your grandmother must have been a wreck. How could the body move that distance? There must have been a very swift current.”

“She died three months later. They called it widow’s decline. Apparently, it’s quite common.”

Dylan reached out and grabbed Peter’s hand. Peter had tears on his cheeks and he put his free hand over Dylan’s.

“I’m okay now,” Peter said, “thank you.” He leaned across the table and kissed Dylan. Dylan held the back of his head so they lingered like that for a moment. “I don’t know anything about my great grandfather, and there’s nothing on my mother’s side that’s particularly tragic or strange.”

Peter took another sip of his scotch. “I’m meeting with Jim Kellen on Friday after school. His observation was fine, but I have to ask him about what I saw on his laptop. It’s going to be a mess.”

Dylan said, “Take another little sip of your scotch and then listen to me. I’m speaking as your lawyer now. You don’t go anywhere near the laptop issue with this guy. It’s going to be just like the news tonight. He’ll claim to know nothing about it, my guess is that he doesn’t. Think what it will be like if he allows your tech guy to rummage through his laptop and they find nothing. The spotlight instantly shifts from creepy Jim to delusional Peter.”

Peter was silent. “You’re right,” His voice as barely audible as the truth of Dylan’s words struck him.

“I have a lot of faith in Edmund Opatashu; he’s more than just a teacher and a genealogist. He’s what people used to refer to as a wise man, in the old fashioned way. Someone who knew things that other people don’t know. Let’s finish filling out those papers and I’ll fax them to him right away. The sooner we see him, the better.”

“The sins of the father,” Peter said. “That’s was what the Patty Cake said. It said those sins last and last and last.” Peter took a sip of his scotch. “Do you think that my family had something to do with the Witchhunter and the witch prickers?”

Dylan shook his head. “A good lawyer waits until he gets as much information as possible before drawing any conclusions.” He got up and put his hand on his stomach. “I’m not taking another drink until we’ve got dinner prepared. Let’s eat.”

(to be continued)

“PATTY CAKE” (p.10)

Ch. 22

Peter stood at the window in his shorts looking out at the intense yellow/white brightness of an early October sun. He spotted one woman walking swiftly across the street. She had to put one arm up to her forehead to block the bright rays. Peter watched her and felt angry. This woman didn’t know anything about “Patty Cake,” or hideous faces that appeared on CNN or under staircases. All she had to worry about was the sun shining on her. Well, maybe, in reality, she has a few more worries than that, he conceded

Peter stared at the woman until she was too far down the street for him to see her anymore. Reality, he thought. I hardly know what reality is anymore. If both Dylan and I see something that nobody else can see, is that reality? Peter look away from the window and worried, Is Dylan only seeing these things and experiencing impossible events, because I’m near him when they happen? No. There was that man in the hospital. Peter shook his head. The man in the hospital could have just been a regular man. Peter stepped away from the window. I don’t know what’s regular anymore, or what’s real. I know something that’s real. I have to get dressed, and I’m meeting with Jim Kellen at the end of the school day. That’s something loverly to look forward to, he thought. But at least it’s real.

Peter headed toward the bathroom when the door opened and Dylan stood there, clean, groomed, shaved and dressed for the day. “Morning Peter Pan,” Dylan said and kissed him quickly. “I’m going to drop dead if I don’t have coffee within the next fifteen minutes.” He sped away to the kitchen.

“I’m glad you’re ready before me,” Peter called after him. “Then I can look forward to that coffee without having the trouble of making it.”

When they were both sipping coffee, Dylan said, “I’ve thought about that CNN business last night, and I seriously wonder if we are the victims of hypnotic suggestion.” Dylan went on to suggest moments when they were together that it might have happened.

Peter silently debated whether to punch holes in that theory or let Dylan go on. He decided on the latter. After about five minutes of trying to support his idea, Dylan put down his mug and drummed his fingertips on the top of the breakfast island. “I can’t support it,” he admitted. “But never mind, I’ll be speaking to Dr. Opatashu and setting up a meeting with him for the two of us. As I’ve said, I have a lot of faith in this guy and his intelligence and experience. I’m hopeful that he’ll see something in all this that we didn’t see.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Peter said. “I’m going to be optimistic.”

“Great,” Dylan said, and then his eyes opened wider, “And remember,” he said. “When you meet with that jerky teacher; don’t mention the laptop or what you saw on it.”

“I’m not going to,” Peter said. “Don’t worry. It isn’t even something that I want to bring up.”

“Good!” Dylan got up and put his mug in the sink. “Do you mind rinsing that out. I have an early appointment…” he glanced at his watch, “…in about eight minutes.” He grimaced, grabbed his briefcase and coat, and grinned at Peter, “Love you, Peter Pan,” he said.

“Love you….Dylan Hook!” Peter grinned back, and Dylan vanished with a bang of the Brownstone door.

* * *

Peter had two classroom observations in the morning, one in a fourth-grade classroom and one in the first grade. After that he had his fourth-grade class and a special surprise for them. Peter walked back to his office with his spirits high, and grabbed up the supplies he was going to need and headed to his classroom.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” Peter said, as soon as he walked into the room. “Grab your copies of Midsummer Night’s Dream and the modern English scripts you wrote for homework. We’re going to perform those scenes in a very appropriate environment.”

A hand shot up immediately, followed by nearly the whole class. Peter grinned and waved his arm at the class, “Tell me about it,” he said.

A happy chorus of voices shouted, “We’re going to do it in the Enchanted Book Forest.”

“Kee-rect,” Peter said. And a minute later, supplies in arm, he led the class out to the tree-shrouded grotto.

“We won’t get through everybody’s scene today, but not to worry, I’ve booked the Forest for all of next week. Okay, let’s start. Who’d like to go first.”

Peter was delighted that every hand shot up waving with excitement. He chose two students to begin. “Okay, Dahlia and Philip, we’ll start with Dahlia’s script and then do yours, Phil. Okay?”

The kids agreed and Dahlia stretched out on the grass while Philip got ready to make an entrance. Dahlia had memorized her script, so Philip got to hold it.

Dahlia (as Titania) rubbed her eyes and said, “Who woke me from my sleep,” she paused and looked disgusted, “here..Yuck… on the ground.” The other students laughed.

Warren (as Bottom): It was that silly cuckoo making his noise. What man would listen to that garbage?

Dahlia: Please sing again. I like your voice. (Dahlia wiggled her eyebrows) And your looks really turn me on.

Peter and the students howled, and then Peter saw that someone was watching them from a distance. Peeking through leaves and branches were the horribly familiar eyes; wide and shining with, what Peter had come to think of, as a kind of madness.

Warren: What are you nuts? Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t think too much of me.

The class applauded as the scene ended, and for a moment Peter’s attention was pulled back to his class.

“That was very good, both the script and the acting.” Peter gave the two a little personal clap. “Warren, I know you have a script as well, and we’ll make sure that you get to act out your scene, but I’d like to give two other Shakespeareans a chance to do their stuff. So, let’s have Sheryl and Diego, and this time we’ll start with a boy’s script. You’re on Diego.”

Sheryl looked at the script, since she would speak first and giggled. In another moment everyone knew why. Diego had done a very clever job of giving Shakespeare a Hispanic flavor. Sheryl’s opening line was, “Ai, caramba! What am I doing sleeping on the ground. Gualala! And who woke me from a buen sueño?” Sheryl giggled. It was fortunate that the fourth graders had started Spanish in kindergarten. As a result, Sheryl’s accent was good.

The scene went on and Peter’s attention moved from the very funny script Diego had written back to the eyes that continued to stare. Peter found himself going from watching Sheryl and Diego in a genuine star turn, to glancing at his class. None of them saw the eyes. They couldn’t have and not had a reaction, and yet they were fully focused on Sheryl and Diego.

Maybe Daryl is right. Are we victims of hypnotic suggestion? Otherwise, the kids would see it and be pointing and screaming right now. He took another look at the kids. No screaming. No pointing. He looked back at the eyes; they were gone.

Diego and Sheryl had finished the scene and after applause, other hands waved to go next. They were able to get through half the class during the remainder of the period, and although Peter scanned the periphery of the Enchanted Book Forest, the eyes didn’t reappear.

When dismissal came, and Peter went to the front of the campus to wave the students off for the day, his mind was on his upcoming meeting with Jim Kellen. The bright yellow mini vans and the cars that had waving kids

in them, put a smile on his face. It’s amazing, he thought, how your brain can really do two things at the same time. As he waved and sometimes pretended to chase after the van or car, his mind was also pre-processing his upcoming meeting. He had more than a little anxiety about it. Jim Kellen was one of those people, as he had experienced before, who could grin at you one moment and then turn at the drop of a hat to someone accusing and threatening, Like a freaking herring gull. Peter had once taught a course titled “What makes people human?” It attempted to answer that question by studying the behaviors of different animals, fish, and birds moving up to a study of man. It was basically a question of who had more innate behaviors and who had more learned behaviors. The herring gull had few learned behaviors, and when upset, it would raise its wings and open its beak. That’s Kellen. Raising his shoulders and opening his mouth wide as he moved into attack mode. We’ll see if the ‘herring gull’ emerges when I tell Jim that I expect him to continue leading the class and putting his lesson’s aim on the Smart Board.

Dismissal ended, and Peter headed back to his office. Jim was sitting on the couch talking to Mary. Mary was talking in a voice and tone that Peter recognized. It was part of her magic ability to put people into a positive state before they met with Jim, and Jim did appear relaxed for a change.

“Hi, Jim. Would you like some coffee or tea?” Peter asked.

“Thanks, I’ll just take some water.”

Peter got two cups of water and gave one to Jim. “Come on in,” he said and led Jim into his office.

The afternoon light made the office look warm and cozy. Jim sat on the couch on one side of Peter’s coffee table and Peter on a chair across from him.

“How do you feel about your lesson?” Peter asked.

“I’d really rather hear your report,” Jim said, still smiling and showing more teeth than was necessary.

“I’m not trying to put you on the spot,” Peter said smiling. “You saw the message I left you, so you know I really liked the lesson, but knowing how you felt about it is important, because it’s a predictor of future lessons.”

Jim’s face looked, just for a moment, as if he was deciding whether to challenge the way Peter was directing the meeting, but then his attitude turned in a second, and Jim became revoltingly self-congratulatory. “You can see how responsive the students were throughout the discussion. I think a lot of that came from the way I’ve cultivated self-reliance in my students.”

Peter was silent, but he knew what was happening. Jim was giving credit for the success of the lesson by legitimatizing his having the students work independently at other times. Peter listened until Jim finally ran out of ways to admire himself and then took out his written observation and handed it to Jim.

The office was wrapped in silence for at least five minutes as Jim read and reread the observation. Peter broke the silence.

“Jim, you understand that my expectation is the same as I have for any classroom in the school. I always want to see the written objective on the “Smart Board” and see you actively engaged in teaching the class. That doesn’t mean that there can’t be moments when the children do something on their own, but that can’t be the lesson, and it certainly shouldn’t take up the entire period.”

Jim shifted in his seat and his face took on a confrontational expression. Then, abruptly, as if making some sort of quick internal decision, Jim smiled, nodded and rises from his seat. “Thank you,” he said. “I understand.” Jim strode to the office door and turned, with a smile to say, “Thank you for the observation and this meeting.” For just an instant, he thought he saw, once again, the wide, glittering eyes of the tantalizing woman transposed over Jim’s eyes in his grinning face. Then Jim was out of the door.

Peter was so shaken that he stood holding onto the back of his chair. Mary appeared in the open doorway. “Was it okay….?” She paused and moved forward, “You look terrible. What happened?”

“Come in and close the door, please,” Peter said.

Mary closed the door, and they both sat down. Peter never took Mary for granted and it worked both ways. It was the same with the Heads of the Middle and Upper Schools. They each had an administrative assistant who was also a friend and confidante. Mary had often needed to speak to Peter about life problems, and Peter knew that his counterparts in the school’s other divisions enjoyed the same closeness and confidentiality.

“There is something wrong with Jim,” Peter said.

Mary sniffed, “You’re telling me.”

“He was pleased with the observation report, but tried to manipulate my expectations to fit his own goal, which is to have the kids work on their own while he does, whatever he does, on his laptop. Then he suddenly got up, grinned in a very odd way, and left.”

Mary shook her head and clicked her tongue, “Can’t you just get rid of him? He’s never going to be any better than he is now. You know what you always say, ‘What you see is what you get.’”

Peter nodded. “I saw these qualities in him when I interviewed him, but he was recommended by Lydia. Jim’s grandmother is a friend of Lydia’s mom, and although she said she trusted my judgement, she added that she thought Jim was a very fine young man, a graduate of Columbia, and a devout Christian with good values.”

“Oh, lord,” said Mary. “Talk about pressure. Why didn’t she just hire him herself?” She paused. “Have you tipped her off about how he runs his class, and isn’t he late handing back work?
“Damn! I forgot to put that into the write up, but it seemed like another topic to deal with. Now, I’ll have to check to see if he’s still not getting work back in a timely way and have another meeting.”

“I don’t mean to tell you how to do things. You always take the high road, but I think you should probably have a talk with Lydia and give her a good clear picture of Jim’s shortcomings and how he manipulates things. For example, how he gets chummy with certain members of the faculty about how hard working he is and how persecuted he feels.”

Peter nodded. “I will. Thank you, and have a great weekend.”

“You too, and do something fun with Daryl. You deserve some fun.”

“A very good idea,” Peter said.

Peter went back into his office. He picked up an old stuffed Piglet that sat on his windowsill and, in a very low voice shared, “If I catch Jim working at his computer for a period, while he has the kids do busy work, I’ll put him on probation. But Mary’s right. I’d better let Lydia know about Jim, since she has this vested interest. Although Lydia’s vested interests don’t always last very long. But if I don’t tell her, she’ll almost definitely have a reaction especially if Jim’s family decides to run to her with their grievances.”

Peter put Piglet back on the warm window seat and turned on his computer. Undoubtedly, there would be at least fifty emails waiting for him. As the computer charged, his cell phone rang. Peter fished it out of his jacket pocket; it was Dylan.

“Hi. Can you be home by 6:30 the latest? Edmund Opatashu is coming to the Brownstone. I’ll pick up a pizza and some side dishes, but I need you there.”

“No worries, I’ll be there. Are you still at work?”

“I’m in the rest room during a break in a legal briefing, but I’ll be home in plenty of time. Don’t drive crazy, but be home.”

“No worries; you take care too.”

Peter tucked his phone away and remembered to put a copy of Jim’s observation in his file and got up to do that. Filing the papers also reminded Peter to add, ‘Call Lydia re: J.’ on his endless “List of Things to Do. Then he set to work on his emails.

Peter hit terrible traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway and wound up walking into the Brownstone at 6:40. “I’m sorry I’m a little late,” he called from the hallway, “I think the entire Bronx was moving to New Jersey.”

Peter walked into the living room and saw Dylan and a man having drinks.

Dylan jumped up and gave Peter a hug, “Peter this is Dr. Opatashu. Here, give me your coat and backpack and I’ll hang them up.”

Edmund Opatashu put his drink down, stood up smiling broadly, and extended his hand. “Edmund Opatashu,” he said shaking Peter’s hand.
“I’m Peter. Dylan has told me wonderful things about you.”

Edmund Opatashu was very tall; Peter estimated that he was closer to seven feet than six. His hair was red with a touch of white that added that old quality; distinction. He had a trim goatee, still all red, and a smooth, almost lineless face. He was wearing a white turtleneck, white pants and white shoes.

“And I am so happy to meet you at last, Peter. Your name becomes very special when Dylan says it.”

Peter found himself drawn to Opatashu, as if there was an aura of goodness that surrounded him and leaked out to anyone in his presence.

Peter detected a slight accent in Dr. Opatashu’s voice. It could be Yiddish or Russian or Rumanian. “Please sit and enjoy your drink. I’ll make one for myself in a minute.”

“I’m already making it,” came Dylan’s voice from behind Peter. “You guys go on talking.”

“Please call me Edmund,” Dr. Opatashu said sipping his drink.

“And here’s your drink, kiddo,” Dylan said, putting a club glass with ice and a martini in it in Peter’s fist and kissing his cheek as he did.

“I didn’t get that,” Edmund chuckled.

“You wife wouldn’t love it if you had,” Dylan said taking his seat.

Edmund sipped his drink, put it down and leaned forward, “Dylan has been filling me in on the extraordinary things that have been happening to the two of you, but primarily to you, Peter. Would it be asking too much for you to give me your own summary of what has been happening?”

“No, no, of course not,” Peter said, and started with the verse of Patty Cake he heard the girls singing, what followed and all of the events including the eyes in the Enchanted Book Forest that afternoon and how those same eyes seemed superimposed over Jim Kellen’s when he left the office.

“There’s another thing,” Peter said. “I can’t believe I left it out.” He turned to Dylan. “Did you tell Dr. Opatashu about the witch pricking?”

Dylan said, “A little. Why don’t you tell it yourself.”

Peter told Edmund about the research his tech manager, Mike Phelan, had done on the Patty Cake verse and the repeated used of “prick it” and where that phrase might have originated from, the witch pricking in Salem.

Edmund smiled gently and said, “When Dylan told me about your dream, I did some research of my own. I found out about the witch-pricking; a hideous and sadistic practice. I also went to the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and found a book dedicated to the witch pricking practice. It was an old book that they had down in the stacks below the library where rare books are kept. I sat in a study carrel and read for quite a while until I came to a chapter titled Martha Shelton.

Martha Shelton was a woman who never married and kept a tiny farm outside of Salem. She kept pigs and sold them in the town once she had slaughtered them and properly butchered them. Apparently, she was very professional and wrapped the parts in brown paper tied with twine and labeled according to the part of the body. She made quite a good living in this way and used some of her money to buy candy. Martha Shelton apparently had a very sweet tooth based on how much candy she apparently bought.

Then children began to disappear. At first it was only one or two, and it seemed as if they’d wandered into a dense forest at the edge of town and possibly were either kidnapped or savaged by an animal, mostly wolves that were often seen in that forest.

Gradually more and more children vanished and someone followed her child and saw Martha Shelton offering the child candy and inviting it into her house. The parent rushed in and snatched his child. Martha had put a platter of candy on her neat kitchen table and was standing behind the child with a meat cleaver.”

Edmund paused and said, “You would have thought that the town would have charged her with murder, but they had no evidence of that, except Martha holding the meat clever while the child ate candy. The meat she had delivered to town had all been sold and…eaten. So, instead she was accused of witchcraft and was tortured in a number of ways before they decided to do the witch pricking test.”

“Don’t tell me,” Dylan said. “She didn’t feel any of the pricking.”

Edmund nodded and pointed at Dylan, “Spoken like a true investigatory attorney. She felt nothing; not even when they put out her eyes.”

“Her eyes?!” Peter said. “God, what kind of people would do a thing like that?”

“Yes,” Edmund said, nodding at Peter, “what kind of people could do an act of such extreme violent cruelty, but of course history tells of far worse things that we needn’t go into at this point? To complete my story. According to the book the witch hunters were so frustrated by Martha’s apparent inability to feel pain that they were certain that they were in the presence of genuine evil and they burned her alive, at a stake in the town square.

What the good people of Salem didn’t know is that there is a condition called Congenital Insensitivity to pain where individuals are unable to feel pain. It’s a very rare, genetic condition that disrupts the nervous system's ability to perceive pain. It's also known as Congenital Analgesia”

“Is that what Martha Shelton had?” Dylan asked.

“Unless you believe that actually was some sort of witch, I would suppose that was the case. According to the book, Martha didn’t cry out in the flames until the very end where they heard her shriek something from the fire.”

“What did she shriek?” Peter asked.

Edmund shook his head, “No one knows what she said. Between the roaring of the fire, the popping of the huge pile of wood below the stake she was tied to, her words were drowned out. They only know that she cried out something.”

Dylan smirked, “Did they have bad words back then? My guess is that Martha let loose.”

Edmund laughed, “There were always bad words, but I suspect that we’ll never know what Martha said.” He paused, “Or whether she really was a witch.”

Peter and Dylan exchanged looks. Peter said, “You don’t think she was a witch. You don’t think that.” He took a swallow of his drink. “Do you, Edmund?”

“I don’t know what I think. I don’t know what a witch is. Is it someone who can work magic, or makes a pact with the devil, or is it a person who does acts of incredible evil. Some people in the town believed that Martha screamed out a curse. It certainly seemed possible. A number of people in the town suffered violent deaths, but the book didn’t say what they were.”

“Too bad,” Dylan said. That would have been the best part.”

Edmund picked up his martini; he studied the glass for a moment and then took a sip. “There is something I’ve long wanted to write a paper about, and this story and all that you’ve told me makes me think even more seriously about possibly doing that.” He put down his glass. “Specific memories cannot be passed down from one generation to another except in some very exciting science fiction stories. However, research suggests that life experiences, especially ones involving trauma, can influence how genes are expressed in later generations through a process called epigenetics. If you have an ancestor who was engaged in some traumatic activity, either directly or indirectly, this may have affected genetic information that went on getting passed down from generation to generation making each generation vulnerable in any number of real physical ways.”

“But Doc, that doesn’t explain the crazy events like markings that appear on a door and then disappear, or the CNN story that was on every channel except no one else on the planet saw it except Peter and me?”

“Knowing you, Dylan, and how rooted you are in facts, I can only assume that those events really happened to the two of you.”

“How?” Dylan asked. “Are we just crazy.”

“Not crazy. You two are not crazy.”

“How do you know we’re not crazy?” Dylan said. “We see things that other people don’t see. How is that not crazy?”

\Edmund said, “I don’t believe that crazy people can make such perfect martinis. We’re going to find out what the connection is between your family, Peter, and the practice of witch pricking, and I’m giving you both a little homework. Find out as much as you can about Martha Shelton. Now, I’d love to dig into that pizza.”

(to be continued)

Chapter 23:

It was eight o’clock on Saturday morning, and Peter had managed to get up before Dylan and make a sinful breakfast. There were pancakes, Dylan’s beloved sunny side up eggs, toast, bacon, and sausages. Dylan walked in like the Frankenstein monster, the Boris Karloff talking-version, arms outstretched, stiff-legged and grunting, “Coffeee…GOOOD! Bacon…GOOOD! Sausage…GOOOD! Pancakes…VERY GOOOOD!!”

The monster lost his rigidity and folded neatly into a chair across from Peter who had a towel tucked into his belt and was in the act of putting warmed maple syrup on the table.

“You are a wicked, evil, man, and I will need to buy my pants a size larger after this breakfast.”

“No, you won’t, because we’re having yogurt for lunch and a Greek salad for dinner.”

Dylan already had a generous slice of pancake in his jaw, and an expression of bliss on his face.” When he swallowed, he put down his fork and said, “I went online and looked for Martha Shelton, and what do you think I found?”

Peter waited.

“I found a Martha Shelton who is running for Senator in Wichita, Kansas, and a Martha Shelton who has written a cookbook titled, Kmart’s Plant Based Cookbook, and finally, a Martha Shelton serving a nice long sentence in prison for attacking her husband with a red-hot frying pan. Not a sign of a Martha who might have butchered tots, and then been burned at the stake.”

Peter took out his cell phone. “I was a little luckier than you. I found this.” Peter pulled up a picture from his phone’s photo library.

Dylan studied the picture. “The eyes are similar and would be even more so if she opened them a little wider in the terrible mad way. I wonder what her teeth look like. What did it say about her?”

“Almost nothing,” Peter said. “The picture came curtesy of a church database. It didn’t say what church or anything about this Martha Shelton.”

Dylan studied the picture, “What do you think, Peter? Is this the woman you’ve been seeing, the one who jabbed you with pins in that lousy dream?”

“She’s very composed in this photo, but if her hair was loose, and she looked insane with eyes wide practically bulging, and her mouth showing large teeth it might look just like her.” Peter thought for a moment and then said, “What if I scanned the photo in my laptop, would it be able to identify the picture?”

Dylan tipped his head to one side and closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. “Uh uh, the laptop already has the picture. Besides, scanning a picture into your computer only gives you a digital copy of the photo. It can’t provide any information except what you feed in and you’ve already gotten very limited information. But wait, I wonder if you typed Martha Shelton and Church Historical Database what you’d get.”

Peter scooped up some egg, chewed swallowed, sipped some coffee, and then took a bite of bacon. Then he typed into google search, “Martha Shelton, Church History Biographical Database. “Crap!” It took Peter right back to the page where he first found the picture.

“Let’s finish this wonderful breakfast and then, before we head out to your apartment, let’s both of us type in Martha Shelton and the Church database and then add to the search things like, “place of residence,” and “marital status,” and “witch.”

“Oh, the last one is bound to do it,” Peter said laughing and then popped the rest of the bacon into his mouth.

Over breakfast they sketched out a plan for tackling what Peter should bring to the Brownstone. They would each take a room and make a list of what they thought absolutely needed to make the trip.

“I think it will probably be clothes, books, music and DVD’s,” Peter said. “You’d better check the DVD’s to make sure I don’t bring doubles.”

“For sanity’s sake, keep in mind that there are things you might not want to bring to the Brownstone but wouldn’t mind keeping in storage.”

Peter shook his head, “Storage is another way of throwing things out, only you pay to do it.”

When they finished breakfast, they scarped plates and then filled the sink with dish washing soap and water and slid the plates and utensils into the tub. “Ah,” Dylan sighed, “the lazy homo’s way to wash dishes.”

“Let’s give ourselves a half hour to research and then get on to your apartment,” Dylan said.

“Agreed.”

Twenty minutes later they were ready to go.

“I didn’t find anything,” Peter said.

“I didn’t either,” Dylan said, “not even when I typed in ‘Martha Shelton plua Witch.’”

Peter laughed, “I did the same thing with no result. I even thought I”d ve tricky and typed in Martha Shelton plus witch-pricking. I got a whole article on witch-pricking, but no Martha.”

“I’ve had enough of Martha for now,” Dylan said. “Let’s move on to your old apartment.” Peter, who, just a few weeks ago, had worried about the move, now found himself excited when Dylan said, ‘…your old apartment.’ He found he couldn’t wait to live with Dylan. For a moment he had an uneasy thought, Is it just because I’m afraid of that woman? No, I’m afraid of her but that’s not it.

“Let’s go,” Peter said. Then he rushed over to Dylan and grabbed him in a hug. “I’ve already mentally moved into your Brownstone.”

“Once this move is complete, this is going to be our Brownstone with both our names on the lease,” and Dylan kissed Peter.

* * *

“I’ve been thinking how we should do this,” Peter said, when they were in his apartment. “Let’s each take a room and make a list of what we think I should bring. Then we’ll go over them together.”

“That’s a plan,” Dylan grinned. “You choose the rooms.”

“I’ll take my bedroom and kitchen and you take the living room and bathroom. How’s that sound?”

“Fine,” said Dylan. “Shit! I don’t have a pad.”

Peter hurried to a desk, opened the top drawer and took out two of a dozen pads out of it plus two pilot G-2 ballpoint pens from a rubber band around at least a dozen more pens. The drawer resembled an aisle in Staples.

Dylan stared into the drawer, “You’re very good with using limited space to hold a lot.” Peter,turned slightly red-faced, but then he chuckled, “You’ll definitely want to make a discard pile of repeated drawer junk. I never realized what a hoarder I am.”

“Of school supplies, anyway,” Dylan said.

Peter was going to close the drawer and hide its contents from view but decided to leave it open. After all, the process of moving was also the process of discarding.

The men separated NS Peter went into his bedroom with his pad and pen. HW looked over his room and decided to do the hardest thing first and that was his closet and dresser drawers. The closet first; that’ll be the hardest, he decided.

In his mind, had already committed to the number of suits he needed since he already had several at Dylan’s place, but now he needed to check out shirts, pants, ties, socks and shoes, so he opened his clothes closet that occupied one entire wall of the bedroom.

“Jeez. I’ve got a lot of shoes,” Peter muttered aloud. “And sneakers!”

Peter had two pairs of shoes and at least that many pairs of sneakers at Dylan’s, so he decided to bring two more pairs of shoes and the same number of sneakers.

Now for pantz and shirts, Peter began rifling through the carefully sectioned hangerz that ran the length of the closet. “Where did I get this shirt from?” he said aloud, pulling a blue dress shirt with yellow stripes running lengthwise. He held it up making a terrible face at the shirt. Oh yeah! He remembered, Little Jamie Steinberg gave it to me when he was in kindergarten as a Christmas present. Peter still had Jamie’s car; if was in that drawer with a number of other students’ cards. Peter laid the blue nightmare on the bed. I’ve got to take this. I’ll wear it in December till Jamie graduates.

The pants took up about half the hanger, and the shirts the other half. Peter used two hands to push the shirts to the right and the pants to the left, Much easier to look at them this…. He froze. The space he’d made by dividing the clothes revealed the back of the closet, where a door was revealed. The door had never been there before.

What the hell! Peter reaches out and touched the door lightly. I can’t not have discovered this before. Could I? Peter tried to imagine the geography of his apartment to figure out if this door opened out to the hallway or into another apartment. He stood for a moment with his eyes closed visualizing the building. No, not to another apartment or the hallway. This wall…it’s at the end of the building. In his mind, Peter clearly visualized the space between his building and the next. There was an alley between them that was wide enough for maintenance vehicles to use. It can’t just open to the outside? The idea was both incredible and dangerous.

Later, Peter would wonder why he didn’t immediately go and get Dylan and show him the door, but he didn’t. It was like one of those dreams you had when you were a kid where you’re standing in front of a door, and you know there’s something horrible behind it, something that will terrify you, but despite all that you open the door, see the horror, and that jolts you out of the dream.

Peter reached out and opened the door. He wasn’t looking out into empty space and a dangerous drop of several floors. Instead, he was looking into a room. He took a step into the room and started to study it. From where he stood, he could only see two walls, and at first, he thought they were blank, but they weren’t. As he continued staring at them, he noticed that they were covered with a wallpaper that at first seemed white, but the more he looked he perceived that they had once been green. There were also tiny roses running down each panel. They too were so faded as to be almost indetectable. Some of the paper panels had come loose from the wall and part of it hung limply. The wall behind the paper was marked by water damage, a gray drippiness on what might have once been a white background.

Peter took another step into the room to see the other walls, and it was then that he saw a bed. It was an old-fashioned wrought iron bed. Tall, stylized posts rose high at the head and foot of the bed. The posts were models of decorative iron work. Each post had a fantastic iron head mounted at the top. The four heads were small, but Peter could make out that they were fantastic creations with high pointed ears, very snub noses and wide eyes.

Peter’s eyes traveled from the iron heads on the posts to the bed. There were pillows stacked at the head of the bed and a gray quilt covering the bed. There was movement beneath the quilt. Something thin and sinuous was moving like the curl of a wave out of sight.

Not a wave, Peter realized. A snake is under the quilt.

Peter watched as the writhing of the thing under the quilt moved up toward the neatly stacked pillows.

I don’t want to see.

Peter stepped back and then turned to exit the door, but it wasn’t there anymore. There was just wall with the faded green and red roses.

Peter slapped his hand against the wall in hopes that Dylan would hear, but at the same time Peter made a sour sound in his throat. Of course Dylan isn’t going to hear it. Who knows if my bedroom is still on the other side of this wall.

He turned back to the bed and saw that the quilt, where it lay just beneath the pillows was rising. Peter swallowed hard his imagination quickly providing a picture of a monstrous snake undulating under the sheets and making its way toward the pillows. However, a snake’s head did not rise from the quilt. It was the head of a woman that rose up until it was firmly supported. The head turned toward Peter, and he saw the familiar eyes and the large teeth. Beneath the quilt, there was still the form of a snake. Two arms almost rose into view and rested on the quilt. They were scored from wrist to shoulder with the deep wounds of something thick and sharp that had been used to prick and prick them.

Peter shook his head from side to side. This is not real, he tried to believe. He closed his eyes very briefly, for fear of her attacking him when he couldn’t see her, but when he opened them again, the scene had not altered. Despite the glowing eyes and teeth, the woman looked like the photograph of Martha Shelton. Perhaps that picture had been taken before she had undergone her torture.

Peter looked down at himself. He saw his shirt, his pants, his sneakers. He was real; this was all real, but it couldn’t be real. It can’t be Martha Shelton. They took her eyes; she was burned to ashes. But if there is an after-life, perhaps we are all restored.

“What’s your name?” Peter asked, the woman, although he thought he knew. “Why are you following me?”

There was no answer, but the hands on the quilt tightened into fists gripping the quilt tightly as the woman, the corners of her mouth tipping slightly upward as if she was amused at something, started to rise from the pillows.

Peter turned around praying that the door to his bedroom had returned, but the wall was as flat and featureless as it had been before. Peter had a terrible thought. Don’t keep your back to her. You don’t know what she’ll do. She might be right behind you. He spun around, and the woman had not yet left the bed. She continued to rise from the pillows. With one eye glued to her progress, Peter noticed another door. It was on the far side of the room where he had first started paying attention to the wallpaper. It hadn’t been there then but it was there a now abd just slightly ajar.

Oh, God! Maybe it will take me out of this nightmare. Jesus, please let that happen! Peter sprinted across the room and through the door, slamming it behind him and leaning against it for a moment. Within the room he hears a thud and imagines the woman, the Martha Shelton monstrosity, dropping out of the bed with her snake body thick and heavy undulating beneath her arms and head. Peter’s in the hallway of an our apartment building. Looking to his right and left, Peter sees the doors of apartments. This is not his building. It smells strongly of mold and something else. Something he vaguely remembers smelling before; it’s the camphor smell of mothballs. A single light hangs from an orchid-shaped light fixture hanging from the ceiling which has patterned yellow tiles on it. Across the hallway is a staircase going down. If I let go of the door, will it burst open? Will she come crawling out or will she spring out. If I can get to the top of the staircase, then maybe I can get out of here and back to my apartment. Please let me get back.

Peter leapt away from the door and made the for the staircase. He didn’t look back but hurried down the stairs. I don’t think the door opened, Peter thought, but I’m not looking back. Down. That’s the thing to do. Go down and get out of here!

Peter is a light and graceful mover and that’s evident in how his feet moving almost exclusively on his toes quickly travel down three flights of stairs. As he passes each floor he is shocked at how close the apartment doors are. The apartments must be tiny, like apartments in old tenement buildings.

Panic to escape makes Peter lose track of how many floors he’s sped by, but at last the stairs end and he has reached the entrance of the building. Ahead is a door. A fanlight over the frame that gives a vague impression of a dark street outdoors. The sound of something heavy almost falling down the stairs above him, starts Peter running again, out the door and on to the street, a street he has never seen before.

Although it’s dark, and the only light comes from ornadste lamp posts with a dim flickering light coming from inside the glass lamps, Peter can see the buildings that surround him. Most building are only two stories tall and the building that loom over them are four stories.

Peter walks to the end of the street and see something rising over the tallest building. It’s some sort of spire.

Oh my God. I know what that is, but how? Peter is looking at the spire on Trinity Church which stood at the head of Wall Street. Peter, who had always loved reading books about the history of New York, rememberws that the first Trinity Church burned in a fire, and the second with the spire was once the tallest structure in New York and that was in the 1700’s.

Frozen with a loss of what to do, Peter just stares at the spire and understands, in a way that makes him tremble, that Dylan is more than 300 years in the future while he is somehow here in the Trinity Church past.

Peter runs his hands through his hair, almost wanting to clutch it in his despair. “What am I going to do?” he says aloud. “How do I get back?”

“You don’t get back,” said a hoarse voice.

Peter quickly turned and faced the woman. She has followed him as he feared, but he is relieved to see that her body is not the body of a snake. She is dressed in a black dress that is long enough to touch her feet, which he sees are bare on the stone sidewalk. The sleeves of the dress are short and expose her tortured arms. Peter’s imagination strips her bare and he conjures up a body punctuated by dozens of wounds.

“It took me a very long time to get back,” she rasped. “Hear my voice? When you breathe in flames this is what happens, even after you, the corners of her lips turned up revealing more of her teeth as she smiled. Ever after you come back.”

“You’re Martha Shelton, aren’t you? What do you want?”

The woman’s smile broadens and she makes a hoarse grunt. He realizes that it’s meant to be a laugh.

“I want you to die. I want you to suffer and die,” her voice is much louder, and clearer.

She takes a step toward Peter, and he takes a step back.

“I want your eyes!” she says, and in a blink, she is right in front of Peter. Her breathe is incredibly hot on his face. Like fire, he thinks and then her hands form claws and flash up for Peter’s eyes. “No, you don’t!” Peter shouts grabbing her wrists and struggling with her. Damn. How is she so strong. “What the hell are you? A Witch? Now wonder they burned you.”

The woman screams and vanishes, and Peter is back in his apartment looking into the clothes closet that has no door in it. Dylan is standing just behind him. “I’ve been calling you without getting an answer. What…?” Dylan reaches up for Peter’s hands that are before his face and gripping the air. He brings them gently down.

“She was on the other side of this wall,” Peter says, patting the closet wall. “And I was with her in the past. Somewhere lost in the 1700’s.

(to be continued)