The Circe Spell

by Joe Andriano

144.







21. Metempsychosis

New Orleans, February 2000

 

The night was filled with dreams. Seemed now he was being harassed from all sides. Four shadowy men around his bed. His father at the left foot in his coffin-suit with folded arms and shaking head. Marc asked, Aren't you proud of me for saving the restaurant?

"No DiCaso has ever been a killer of women," his father said. He seemed to melt into the shadowy corner behind him.

Marc turned to the hooded figure at the right foot of the bed. Didn't I see a statue of you somewhere?

"No incarnation of this soul has ever killed a woman until now, I am sure of it. It cannot be undone, of course, but we need not be undone. Our fate is in your hands." He too faded into the corner. Marc turned to the familiar square-headed figure standing at the left side of his bed, not far from his pillow. And you?

"This spirit is tired of meandering. Help me, please. Help me get home."

Marc turned away from Poe to confront the more distant figure on the far side of the bed. It was a woman in a black peignoir, no wait it's a man, or neither now as it slipped into bed with him, a smoky undulating form slowly wrapping itself in the dark sheets. Before his eyes it morphed into Vivy in a black silk nightgown, she lay on top of him giggling, bourbon strong on her breath. He was aroused for a few seconds, then her eyes suddenly rolled up white, she made an obscene gurgling sound and vomited in his face. He pushed her away, and was startled awake by a howl. He had thrown the cat across the room! I knew I should've locked her out of here, damn it!

But no harm done. She landed on her feet and scurried under his desk. He got up quickly, wiping only sweat from his face, and went to her, squatting. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I thought you were someone else." She cringed and cowered under there, then bolted and ran under the bed. "All right, be that way. I know you'll forgive me." You always do.

          He went back to bed, and sure enough Circe came to him again, sat on his chest. Marc gasped and jerked awake yet again, startling the cat, her claws digging in so she could leap away. The pain woke him fully, and he rose, lifting his tee shirt. "Damn it, Circe, I'm bleeding!" She ran and hid somewhere. "Okay, you got your revenge. We're even now." He took several deep breaths. "Stay off my chest, will you please?" I'm awake now, right? Those were embedded dreams, a dream within a dream.

           Feeling claustrophobic and still a little breathless, he decided to go out for some fresh air. He put on blue jeans and grabbed his car keys. Shouldn't drive. Still a lot of clueless tourists around tonight. But the thought didn't stop him. He felt compelled to get into his car and drive.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black blur in the front seat next to him materialize into Poe. I've got to be asleep. I certainly shouldn't be driving! Circe was on Poe's lap and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s was in his hand. For the first time Marc noticed a slight Southern accent. "She's sorry, by the way. She didn't mean to gouge you."

"Is that my bottle of Jack Daniel’s, from home?"






145.

"Of course it is. Where would I get such a thing?" Poe took a swig and offered Marc the bottle. "For courage. You're going to need it."

He took it and drank. I did wake up, didn't I? He coughed, heaved and gagged a little, but kept it down. He passed the bottle back to Poe.

      "So we're going to the police station, right?" Poe asked him. "You're going to confess that you killed the harlot." He drank and passed the bottle back.

"No I'm not. I didn't kill her! And I'm not blowing my chance to win a million dollars." He gulped it down now without a shudder.

"You're blowing my chances! Our chances. You must turn yourself in, to begin atonement. Otherwise your spirit is like a waning crescent moon, every night it's dimmer. There will be no new moon for you, for us. Only another eclipse." He grabbed the bottle and drank so sloppily some bourbon spilled on Circe. She leapt into the backseat. "Listen, Marco, either you go to the station or you drink yourself to death with this. Bringing us back full circle. You can die in some French Quarter gutter."

Marc refused the bottle now. "I'm not going down there, are you kidding? The place is probably crawling with drunken tourists, even on Sunday." He was on the Causeway, actually heading out of town toward Lake Pontchartrain. Poe was trying to force the bottle on him, sticking it in his mouth, making him drink. Bourbon dripped all over his tee shirt. "Jesus Christ will you leave me alone?"

"I can't. Either you turn yourself in or you die quickly so we can get to the next incarnation. Maybe we'll have better luck next time." He reached behind him and lifted the cat by the scruff of her neck. "Come here, Circe, my soul-tracker. I can't lose you again. I must follow you wherever you go." He gently caressed her as she curled up on his lap.

            An SUV roared past them, almost side-swiping them. "Maybe we'll be in a wreck," Marc said. "Is that what you want?"

      "Violent death at this point would be redundant. You've already ensured that there will be no fusion this time. Here. Drink up." He offered the bottle again, and Marc drank in spite of himself. "You're not used to it, are you Marc? I wasn't either, when I went on that last binge in Baltimore. In spite of my temperance pledge. I made that pledge for Elmira, my childhood sweetheart. We were going to be married, but I broke off the engagement: I died. I suppose your doctor’s appointment is like my pledge. To be honored in the breach, right? Obviously my soul has made no upward progress." He offered the bottle.

       "That's enough. I think I'm going to be sick." They were on the Causeway bridge now, the longest stretch of road-over-water in the world. "I need to pull over."

           There was no real shoulder and no median, nor could he stop at one of the crossovers, since police were usually situated there. So he put his right signal on, then his hazard flashers as he pulled over to the curb. Traffic was light enough that he didn't worry about causing a jam, but the vague dread that some distracted driver might crash into his car was easily trumped by the urgent need to barf. He staggered out of the car and started throwing up, thinking as he retched about the nightmare of Vivica vomiting into his face. When he was finished he saw no sign of Poe, but Circe was leaping from the car to the top of the concrete barrier, which was short enough for anyone to jump off easily into the lake. She seemed to vanish in the dark, until a cluster of approaching headlights caught her eyes. She was crawling on the barrier, away from him, but still turning her head back to look his way. "What are you doing, you stupid cat?" Marc pursued her, walking on the narrow curb built into the barrier, trying to keep his balance. A car passed honking, blare dropping in pitch as the angry red lights receded.




146.

"I got her, Marc." Poe, just ahead, was sitting on the barrier with Circe in his lap. "Are you ready now, my long-suffering soul?" he asked Marc. "Ready for the gaping grave you will find in this dirty lake? Ready for the cleansing waters of Lethe? Come along then." He slid off with the cat in one arm. Beckoning Marc with the other arm, Poe and Circe dropped with a splash into the lake, about fifteen feet below.

I can save her. I did it before, I remember! From a canal in Venice! Or was that a dream? Isn't this?

Marc now teetering on the abyss, about to dive into the dark waters of Lake Pontchartrain. He was suddenly grabbed and yanked from behind. He felt several hands pressing into his flesh. "You've had a little too much tonight, haven't ya podnuh?"

Four rough hands managed to ease him to the pavement. "Ready for the breath-a-lizer, buddy?"

Partner and buddy . . . sure, thought Marc, waking yet again, this time for real. "I was just trying to save my cat. She fell into the lake. I think I was walking in my sleep—Jesus, even driving in my sleep."

"Is that what you threw into the lake? A cat? I knew I seen something."

"No, no it was—" Sure, just what they need to hear to haul me away for sure. The ghost of Edgar Allan Poe jumped in the lake with my cat, which by the way was also his cat. "It was my dinner. I was throwing up. I think I'm coming down with something."

The cop picked up the bottle Poe must have discarded against the guardrail. "Yeah I think they call it bourbonitis."

"I haven't had anything to drink in hours."

"Sure." Both cops laughed. "Save it for the judge. Okay, here's how it's goin down. I'll drive your car, and you get to ride with my podnuh. Your registration in the glove compartment?"

"Yes."

"So let's see your license."

"I left my wallet at home. I'm in sweatpants, see?" Oh my god, oh my god, my license!

"No prob. We’ll find you on the computer. Let's go." He was cuffed and forced into the backseat of the patrol car.

"You lost a-lot-a good bourbon all over your shirt, podnuh."

 In the holding cell with a drunk fortunately passed out on a cot in the corner, Marc sat on the other cot. My license, still in her purse! I totally forgot about it, didn't notice the purse on the table, it was covered with beads. I should've been arrested by now, they still must not have discovered her. Poor girl, died so friendless nobody noticed she’s missing. Not even any clients. He looked around at the grungy walls, the trails of roach shit. This is where I belong, really. I've been here before, haven't I, in a jail cell, even in a dungeon? Getting déjà-vu again. Like on the bridge, when Circe fell into the lake. Circe, you'll come back, I know you will. You'll be waiting for me when I get home.

Monday morning he called Charlene from the police station, asked her to take some cash out of his office safe to post bail. She arrived an hour later.

Driving his car, she asked, "What the fuck, Marc?"

"I think I was driving in my sleep."

"And drinking in your sleep? God, you didn't miss your appointment, did you?"

      "It's this afternoon, and maybe tonight too if they decide to start monitoring my sleep right away."




147.

"Good. You'll need a shower first, by the way. You reek. So were you really about to jump in the lake? Because if that's true you need more than a sleep therapist."

"I wasn't trying to kill myself, Charley."

"Then what were you doing?"

"I was going to save Circe. She fell in."

"What? Circe was with you?"

"Yes, she must've followed me to the car."

"Did the cops see her?"

"No. They saw something, but they weren't sure what it was."

"So all they wrote you up for was the DUI?"

"And two tickets—for illegal stopping on the bridge, and driving without a license. I was in my sweats, didn't have my wallet."

When they got to his house, Charlene came in with him. As soon as he opened the door he saw the cat, still wet, sitting curled up on the living room sofa.

"Oh my God!" said Charlene. She picked up the cat, who looked emaciated with her abundant fur all soaked and spiky. "You stink, Circe! You have some raggedy towels, Marc?"

"Do you believe me, Charley?" He found some old towels.

"Of course I do."

They went to the kitchen, put Circe on the counter and started drying her off. Again an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu. "It's happening again, Charley. I feel like I've been through this before." His phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hey you." Lauren's voice. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Did Charley call you?" Charlene shook her head, then picked Circe up off the counter and put her on the floor.

"No. I just wanted you to know it's okay, I don't think you . . . not being able to, you know, perform yesterday had anything to do with me not turning you on. It's whatever else is troubling you, isn't it?"

"Yes. Can you come over?"

"Why did you ask if Charley called?"

"She's here. Can you come over in about an hour? Circe did something even more amazing."

"I'll be there." She hung up.

"I can't stay," said Charlene. "I've got to start working on the taxes, you know."

"Okay. Thank you for bailing me out."

"Circe left a wet spot on your couch. Don't forget that."

"I'll put a towel there."




148.

"I'll see you tomorrow, at work, usual time?"

He nodded. "I'll let you know how it goes at the sleep clinic." In the doorway, he felt momentarily soothed when she squeezed his hand. "Listen, Charley, if I have to . . . go away for a while, you know, if they need me to stay at the sleep center for a week or something," or if I'm in prison, "I can count on you and Louis, can't I? To keep the place going."

She smiled. "Of course you can."

As he closed the door, Circe was heading upstairs. She looked even more like a demon now, she had no fluff, she was all spike and scraggle. He followed her up to his bedroom. His wallet was on the dresser. I know it's not there, but he checked and of course the license was not in its slot.

Circe jumped on his unmade bed. "I think you're a little too damp yet to be sitting there, puss." He scooped her up and put her on the windowsill. The bedroom looked out on the courtyard, which once had been lovely—when his mother had tended it. Now it thrived on neglect, the camellias were abundant. The globular red and pink flowers were so profusely blooming that many blossoms had fallen onto the brick pathways Marc hadn't cleared in a while. Beheaded blossoms also covered the cement benches, blackened with mildew. Marc stroked the wet cat, tried to fluff her fur a bit. She purred in response.

       "You're real," he said. "You're absolutely substantial. So how do you find the doors? The oak tree seems to be one. But what about the lake?" He undressed and went to take a shower. "Will you find me in prison?"

Forty-five minutes later he left, deciding he would drive to Vivica's neighborhood and check her house. He found a parking spot within sight of the shotgun house. It's been a week, I'm surprised the neighbors haven't smelled her already.

He saw Poe next to him out of the corner of his eye. Unlike Circe, he wasn't wet and smelly from the lake. "You know what you have to do. Use that marvelous device in your pocket and call the police now, before it's too late. There's still time to take this first step toward atonement." Marc took the phone out just as it chimed its flute-like ringtone at him. Lauren's lightly freckled face in his palm.

Her voice in his ear. "I'm on your front stoop. Where are you?"

"I'm sorry, Lauren, something came up."

"Thanks a lot for letting me know." She was obviously annoyed.

"I'm sorry for everything. Oh God, Lauren, I've lost you before we even had a chance. So much I wanted to do together. I wanted to go to Venice with you, to see that painting that looks just like you. And see that canal, so familiar now in my mind's eye, the palazzo, the balcony, the cat flying off and hitting the water. I remember going in after her! Saving her! I have no idea who I was, but I know I did that. I rescued Circe!"

            "Marc, what on earth are you babbling about? Where are you?"




149.

"Goodbye, Lauren. I don't expect you to wait for me."

"You’re scaring me, Marc. What are you talking about?"

"You'll see it on the news." He tapped off, then dialed 911. "Hello? I would like to report a missing person. I'm across the street from her house now. She hasn't answered her door in a week. She's not out of town. I think something must have happened to her in there."

"Your name and location, sir."

"Marc DiCaso." He gave Vivica’s address on Terpsichore.

"And the missing person's name?"

"I only know her first name. Vivica."

"I'll send a patrol car."

"Thank you," he said, as Poe, still sitting in the passenger seat, seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

"And thank you, Marco. As soon as they come, confess. Don't wait for them to open that door."

A half an hour later the police arrived, double-parking in front of the house. Marc got out of the car, crossed the street and stood on the walkway leading to her front door. "I don't think she's missing," he said. "I was with her a week ago. We got very drunk together and I think she passed out and—" No, that won't do at all and you know it. "I think I may have accidentally killed her."

"Love got a little rough, did it?" One of the cops went to the door while the other stayed with Marc. After a couple of knocks on the door, the two of them applied their booted feet to it, and it flew open. The stench hit them all immediately. "Call homicide," said one cop to his partner. "Cuff him and put him in the car."

Sitting in the backseat, hands cuffed, he watched as they put up yellow crime-scene tape, neighbors suddenly emerging, several more police cars arriving with detectives, a CSI van next. He could just hear the uniform addressing the suit, we got a suspect in custody (pointing his way), he already confessed, and his driver’s license was found in the deceased's purse. Open and shut.

Just one minor detail. I didn't know I was doing it. Oh god if I hadn't put off that appointment and now of course I can't even get to the one I finally made. If only I had already been diagnosed, making the case would be so easy. Now Charlene and Lauren will both have to testify. Shit what a mess I've made of my life.

No, no not true at all. Sitting next to him, a thin figure, not Poe, somewhat familiar, a monk? He did not look at Marc, nor did he speak aloud. You've made the first step toward cleaning it up.

Who are you?

I am the wandering spirit of the Nolan, it was I who made the mess, not you, I thought in my vain hubris I could conquer Lethe, damn up the river of forgetfulness. But the violent death of my body made that impossible, for such unnatural deaths always result in the fission of spirit from soul.

A spiritless soul can never know itself. Your act of atonement will make it possible for fusion, which will make my magic work again . . . .

You and Poe should get together. You talk the same bullshit.

When alive he never knew me, never knew himself. But your act will free us from Fortune’s wheel. The Circe spell will work, I know it. Our soul will fully recall its past lives . . .

You mean it won’t be mere déjà vu?

and finally learn from them . . .

I need to learn from my present life, thank you.

. . . and rise at last to upward migration, to vector toward the infinite—asymptotic, metemspychotic—

Am I psychotic? You can’t be real!

            —to become pure light, nevermore needing bodily form.




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