begging approval because the road he’d chosen was so different from anything the Ramesh family understood, maybe she would have treated him like one. But such is the nature of bones and families alike; they break all the time, and it’s how and whether they knit back together that counts.
Sheila opened the Tupperware. “I baked it last night,” she said.
He smiled. “They feed me here, Mom. I’ll just be full. But maybe you could give it to the nurse, and ask her to serve that, instead of my dinner.” On-screen, Biddle caught Manning’s pass.
“Oh, I didn’t think of that. Good idea,” she said, and placed the Tupperware back in her bag. Her hand moved closer to his. “It’s not this girl, is it?” she asked.
“What?”
“She didn’t put you on a diet, did she? Why doesn’t she come? Is her job too important for you?”
Saraub shook his head. He’d called at least ten times this week, and was starting to wonder the same thing. “Leave her out of this.”
Sheila sighed. Then sighed again. Saraub looked at her and realized she wasn’t sighing, but crying.
“Hey, stop! I’m not dead. It’s not even serious. I promise.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” she’d told him.
“For what? You didn’t make the plane crash! I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
Her hand clasped the parts of his fingers that poked through the cast. He’d missed his mother; he’d missed the rest of his family, too. “Do you love this woman?” she asked.
He shook his head, like he was disappointed in himself. “Yeah. I do, Mom.”
“Well then, I’ll try to love her, too.” On-screen, the Giants scored a touchdown, which, high on pills, he decided was a sign from God.
“She’s had a rough time. She could use somebody being nice to her.”
Sheila nodded. “I’ll bake her some lamb.”
Saraub smiled. Sheila let her hand drop. For the rest of visiting hours, they watched New York steal a victory from Minnesota. When it was over, she reached between his plaster-cast arms and hugged him good-bye.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said.
“Me, too, sweetie.”
Just two miles away, trapped and bleeding, Audrey Lucas pressed her body against the locked turret window of 14B and screamed into the void.
Part V
Audrey’s Door
Not a Case for the Psychic Friends Network
July 11, 2001
I read Phil Egan’s story on the hauntings in The Breviary apartment building with deep concern. He seemed under the misapprehension that ghosts and demons are the same thing: they’re not. Ghosts are the lingering stain that humans leave on earth once their mortal coil is abandoned. Demons were never human and don’t exist in this dimension. They can only interfere with the lives of men when invoked by séances, or through some other means, offered a portal. The nature of the haunting Mr. Egan described is not specific to any one person, nor does its author seem to want redemption. So you see, it’s not a ghost haunting the tenants at West 110th Street. Ghosts can be reasoned with. It’s a demon, and the building itself is the portal. I strongly caution against exorcism or the use of psychics under these circumstances, as attention gives these beasts strength. I’d also recommend an immediate evacuation of the building.
Sincerely, Ronald McGuinn,
University of Edinburgh, Parapsychology Ph.D.
Letter to the editor, Star Magazine
Fire on the Fifteenth Floor
May 4, 2004
Once again last night, The Breviary reasserted its infamous reputation. This time, a fire broke out on the fifteenth floor after a group of tenants got together and ignited lighter fluid along the hallway carpet. The flames claimed the lives of seven victims, and three more are in critical condition from smoke inhalation.
Mr. Evvie Waugh (78) of 15C, was interviewed at the hospital. When asked why he’d done such a thing to his own apartment, he replied, “I guess we got bored. Nothing happened at the séance, and after all those Manhattans, we were pretty ripped.”
Turn to page 6 for details.
From The Enquirer
34
The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, I: Backward and Forward, the Same Thing Happens
The night she’d found Jayne’s body was a blur. Fast breaths and dizziness. A creaking rope. Her hand extended to the sole of the woman’s swaying saddle shoe. She’d held it in her palm, as if to offer it consolation, and imagined a reversal of events: The metal ladder she’d tripped over rising up like a roused beast. Jayne’s neck straightening, and the blood flowing from her face so that her skin became pale and freckled again. Her feet gaining purchase on the top step. Her hands