The Witch's Key (4 page)

“Coming here?” Spinelli finished.

“Yes, you little perv. Have you been stalking
me?”

“He wasn’t stalking you,” said Carlos. “He was
surveilling you. There’s a difference. He told me how he thought he
saw you come here one morning, and so I asked him to get me some
proof. I figured if you were still alive, then maybe….”

“Maybe I was, too?” I said.

Carlos nodded, and the shame of it is that I almost
think he considered me dead, anyway. I gave the picture back to him
and apologized again for the way he found out about me. “But it
doesn’t change anything,” I told him. “I still can’t help you. In a
way, the old Tony Marcella
is
dead, and I’d appreciate it if
you let him stay that way. Now, if you’ll excuse us?”

I got up and offered Lilith a hand. She stood and
slung her tote bag over her shoulder. As she did, Carlos reached up
and grabbed my arm.

“Tony. There’s one more thing you need to know.”

I thought he was going to tell me that he forgave me,
or maybe that he loved me. Only I’m sure he would have said the
word
man
after it.
I love you, man
. It is the only
acceptable way for two guys to express such feelings, especially
brothers, which, as far as I was concerned, Carlos and I truly
were. Instead, he totally flipped the coin on me and dropped a bomb
that I shall never forget. I set my hand upon his shoulder and
said, “Yeah, man.” Notice the lead in. It is sort of a cue.

“Tony, about that old hobo I mentioned earlier, the
one they call Pops? I think you should do the interview.”

“Me? Why? Is he some tough guy? Does he hate
Cubans?”

“No! It’s nothing like that. Fact is, he’s lying in a
hospice care bed across town.”

“He’s dying?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And you don’t want to talk to some old guy
that’s wasting away before your eyes. Is that it? A little too
close to home?”

He shook his head. “It’s not that, either.”

“Then what?”

“Well…”

“Come on, Carlos. Spit it out.”

“Fine. The old guy at the hospice center, his name is
Anthony Marcella.”

I accepted a list from Carlos containing the names of
all the transients that had committed suicide in the past week and
a half. I then turned to Lilith and offered her an invitation to
join me.

“Uh-ah, no way,” she said, shaking her head
emphatically.

I came back a bit surprised. “Why not? Don’t you want
to meet the man responsible for my existence?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“Cause I said so! Now drop it.”

I gave Carlos and Spinelli a look like I had just
pissed off a rattlesnake and lived to tell about it. “All right.
It’s okay,” I said, though softening that look considerably for
Lilith. “You don’t need to explain. If you don’t want to meet him,
you don’t have to.”

“Good, because I don’t.”

“Fine.” I turned to the guys again. “Gentlemen?”

The two said their farewells. Spinelli even stood up
on Lilith’s account. On the way out I told Lilith I was sorry if I
upset her. She said she was not, but I knew that something was on
her mind. I had come to know her better than that. I also knew that
when I found her in one of those moods that the best thing I could
do was to leave her alone. So, with that in mind, I escorted her
back to the apartment, said goodbye, and then headed for the
hospice care center to see the man who once left me on a doorstep
like a FedEx package.

The drive over to see my father proved surreal. I did
not know what to make of it. I realized that no matter what, I
could not tell him who I really was. And then I came to wonder if
the old man would want to know even if I could tell him. The last
time I had seen him was nearly sixty years ago when he dropped me
off at an orphanage and told me he would be right back. I might
have been five then. I know I was not yet in school. He rang the
bell and then ran off like some prankster kid, only I was the
prank. A kindly young lady took me in through the back door where
they washed me up and fed me hot soup right away.

All that first year, I spent my afternoons sitting by
a window, waiting for my dad to return. But the sun would set.
Morning brought new lessons with my new books and my new friends,
and then the next afternoon would find me blinking back tears,
waiting for dad again. It is a memory I will never forget. And
though I never thought I felt bitter for what my father had done to
me, I realized that I never forgave him for it, either. It is a
scar I have carried, but concealed for all my life.

I found the care center on the corner of Lexington
and Fillmore, opposite the old age home. Creepy, I know, but I
guess it makes sense. Melissa, at the desk, introduced me to India,
the staff supervisor. She was not from India, nor did she look it,
but she said it was easier to pronounce than her real name. I
didn’t ask what that was, but I took her word for it. She seemed a
bit young to me, maybe too young to be someone’s supervisor, but
what she lacked in age she more than made up for in gritty
confidence. She had a no-nonsense attitude about her, not too
harsh, but direct, and I got the feeling that she got things done
the way she wanted it, when she wanted it.

I showed India my badge and explained that I needed
to talk with Mister Marcella about a case the department was
working on.

“Is he a suspect in a crime?” she asked. “Because I
can assure you, if he is, your time would be better spent—”

I stopped her there. “No, no, nothing like that. I
wouldn’t dream of causing Mister Marcella any discomfort, none
whatsoever. I promise. I’d simply like to ask him a few
questions.”

She raked her eyes along my body in judgmental
degrees. I knew that this woman held soul power over my appointment
with destiny. A thumbs-up meant that I might have but one chance to
finally meet the man who dramatically changed the course of my life
some six decades ago. A thumbs-down and even a court order might
not come fast enough to provide the answers I so desperately needed
to explain the void he left in my life. I stood rigid, waiting for
India’s eyes to return to my face, and when they did, I met them
with a smile that even Lilith could not have resisted. It is hard
to say if that’s what worked, or if she recognized the pain in my
heart that even my smile couldn’t mask. In any case, she turned on
her heels and uttered simply, “Follow me.”

We took the elevator to the second floor and followed
the corridor to the end. On the left, I noticed two doors leading
to adjacent rooms. The numbers on the doors read eighteen and
twenty, respectively. Across from that, another door with the
number nine stood partially open. I could see clearly where a one
had once accompanied the nine on the door, denoting the logical
room number nineteen on the odd side of the corridor. But the one
either had fallen off or had been removed. I ran my finger along
the spot where the digit had discolored the paint. India only
nodded that she knew, and then wrapped on the door with the back of
her knuckles to announce our arrival.

“Mister Marcella?” she called. “May we come in?” She
pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Mister Marcella?”

I looked across the room. Lying in a bed by the
window, I saw a shriveled old man, barely a bump in the blanket
that covered him from toe-to-chest. We stepped inside and walked
over to his bed. He looked frail, possibly malnourished; his skin
loose and freckled with age. The lines on his face all seemed to
turn down, pulled by gravity and stretched like taffy, giving him
the look of a sad man on the verge of crying. But his eyes, sunk
deep within their hooded sockets, seemed bright and full of life.
They sparkled with energy when India greeted him, taking his hand
in hers and rubbing it softly. I could not reconcile the
contradiction, how this woman of grit and steel could become so
tender and inspiring. She smiled at him gently, and for a moment,
with the sunlight warming her face and hair, she seemed angelic in
every way.

“Mister Marcella? I brought you some company. Would
you like to meet him?”

At once, the old man came alive. He shimmied on his
elbows to sit up straighter and forced himself to lean forward, as
India propped a pillow behind his back. He smiled at her, and then
at me, his teeth bent and yellowed, but clearly his own.

“Thank you, sweetie,” he said to her. His voice
sounded weak, and whistled some on the ‘wee’ part of sweetie.

“You’re entirely welcome. Mister Marcella, this is…”
She turned to me, suddenly perplexed, perhaps even miffed that she
had neglected to get my name.

“Spinelli,” I said, wanting to use an alias that
would check out if she followed up on it later. “Dominic, but you
can call me Dom.”

She nodded, satisfied with that. “It’s Dom Spitelli,”
she said to Marcella. I did not bother to correct her. “Mister
Spitelli is a detective with the NCPD. He’s here to ask you some
questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Detective?” The old man seemed genuinely concerned.
“He’s not here about the Studebaker I borrowed back in ‘57’, is
he?”

India looked at me and I shook my head, smiling.
“No,” she said. “I’m sure he’s not here about that.”

“Oh, because I brought it back, you know.”

“Yes, I’m sure Mister Spitelli knows that. Listen,
I’m going to leave you two alone for a while. If you need anything,
just press your button. All right?”

“I will. Thank you. You’re a sweetheart, you know
that?”

“Yes, and so are you, Mister Marcella. You boys have
a nice chat now.”

I watched with butterflies in my stomach as she
leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. A small part of me felt
as though I were intruding on a private family moment, and yet
another, as though I were missing out on one. India came around the
foot of the bed and gave me a subtle wink as she passed. I mouthed
the words thank you to her, resisting the urge to stop her in her
tracks and hug the living daylights right out of her. She crossed
the room on a sweep of air, and I watched her walk away until even
her shadow disappeared down the corridor outside. When I turned
again, I saw the old man looking at me, his face filled with
question and wonder, perhaps not unlike mine when last we met.

I came around the bed, pulled up a chair and smiled
at him as best I could. He smiled back, and I realized then that
nothing in the past mattered any more. The trials of sixty years
had wiped our slates clean, and for what little time we had left
together, we were both starting over.

“Mister Marcella, good morning,” I said. “How are
you?”

He soured his face immediately. “Please, call me
Pops. That’s my moniker, you know.”

I smiled at that, mostly for the irony. “Sure. Pops.
So, how are you?”

“Oh, can’t complain,” he answered. “Hey, you ain’t
got a smoke, have ya?”

I patted my pockets. “Sorry.”

He settled into his pillow, a little deflated. “Ah,
just as well. Damn lungs can’t take no more anyhow.”

I took a guess. “Cancer?”

“Yup. The big C. It finally caught up with me. Took
eighty-nine years, though. Not a bad run if you ask me.”

“Indeed,” I said, “I should be so lucky.” But then I
though how insensitive that must have sounded. I tried taking it
back by somehow spinning it in a different light, but that only
made it worse. I tried again. “What I mean to say is—”

“Skip it, son,” he said, waving it off. “I know what
you meant. ‘Taint no big deal. So, tell me. If you ain’t busting me
for borrow`n that Studebaker, what are you here for?”

Good question, I thought. I guess I could have told
him I was there to ask why the hell he abandoned me as a child. Why
did he say he’d be right back when he knew damn well that he’d
never see another one of my birthdays as long as he lived? Why did
he leave me in the company of strangers when he could have sought
help from friends or family if things had gotten so bad?

But I did not. Instead, I sat back, crossed my legs
and said, “Pops, I’m here to ask you a few questions about some
unfortunate events that have taken place around here recently. If
you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Ask away.”

“First off, I understand that you’re quite the
domestic traveler.”

“I’m a hobo, son. Go ahead. You can say it. I ain’t
ashamed.”

“They still call it that?”

“Some do, though it ain’t like it used to be.”

“How’s that?”

“In the old days,” he said, and he paused a little. I
saw his eyes sort of drift out the window. I followed his gaze into
the distance and noticed that from where he lay, he commanded a
keen view of the rail yard at Minor’s Point. I guessed it was no
coincidence and credited India for her thoughtful accommodations.
“Things were very different,” he continued. “In the old days,
riding the freights meant that you were part of a family, a
brotherhood of fellow hobos that took care of one another. We lived
a different culture then, with our own language and system of
signing.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned from the window and laid a look on me like
I was from another world. In a way, I guess I was. “Signing,” he
said. “You know, pictures and symbols.”

I shook my head.

“We drew them on curbstones, mailboxes, in alleyways,
on the sides of buildings and even on the trains themselves.”

“Oh, like stick figure drawings? I’ve seen them
before when I was younger. I never really knew what they were. I
thought kids drew them.”

“That’s because they were meant to be simple, but the
message was always important. For instance,” he leaned toward me as
if sharing a secret, “one symbol might let you know if the police
in town were hostile towards hobos. Another if a homeowner had a
gun or a bad dog, or both. And, of course, you had others still
that let you know good things, like where you might cop a hot meal
just by giving some old woman a sob story or by talking
religion.”