Blood In Electric Blue Read online

  Maybe it’s hard for her too, he tells himself. She probably has to fend off men hitting on her all day, or rude customers causing trouble. Maybe her cynicism, if that’s what it was, is justified. Who knows what she’s been through? His resentment softens, but sometimes Dignon wishes people like her could see the decency in him. Why is he always made to feel like a troll periodically emerging from beneath bridges to unintentionally frighten small children? Who are these people to make him feel this way when he’s never done anything to warrant such treatment? Is he supposed to stand in the street and scream, “I’m a good person!” in order to convince them?

  He wonders if Bree Harper will behave that way toward him when they meet, if she’ll dismiss him as some partial entity, an insignificant blip on her radar.

  Dignon hopes not. For now, that’s all he can do.

  Soon, he’ll know for sure.

  * * *

  There is time to kill, and hours to burn. With Mythical Beings in a Mortal World in hand, Dignon sits in his easy chair and opens the book to the first entry.

  ~BANSHEES~

  Believed to be elf-like beings, Banshees are heard but rarely seen. Creatures of the night, their infamous wailing, which is known as “keening,” is primarily found in legends from Ireland, Scotland and Wales. It is believed that when one hears the cry of a Banshee outside one’s home, the death of a family member or close friend is imminent.

  He imagines such beings living here, concealed in darkness while crying proclamations of looming catastrophe, their wails dismissed or mistaken for other, more easily explained sounds. Wouldn’t it be something if they really existed? Would he or anyone in this godforsaken place notice even if they did?

  He closes the book, and in his mind, attempts to conjure a vision of what a Banshee might look like. But instead he is met by the flood of thoughts already residing there, thoughts that surge through his brain like rapids in wilderness. An endless dialogue, the constant chatter ricochets about, searching for avenues of escape. Or maybe it doesn’t want out at all. Maybe he wants to purge himself of this affliction, but the thoughts are quite content to remain where they are, endlessly rattling about in his head. If only they’d quiet down for just a while, he could get his mind some rest. But that is just a fantasy now. True rest; be it physical, psychological or emotional is a ghost.

  He tries to remember what he was like before.

  Before. Before what? Did before ever truly exist?

  Dignon looks at his watch. The second hand slowly sweeps past the six, climbs toward the nine. There is something ominous and unsettling about this, but he can’t quite figure out what.

  The air-breaks on a nearby public bus hiss loudly and cause him to focus on all that is happening just beyond his windows and door. Downstairs, Mrs. Rogo has switched to Frank Sinatra. I’ll Be Home for Christmas creeps up through the floor as lights twinkle on the Christmas bush. I’ll be home for Christmas, sings Sinatra, if only in my dreams.

  Dignon remembers his father playing this song on the old record player in the den during Christmases while he and Willie were growing up. Their father would sit in a chair with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, tears streaming down his cheeks while never uttering a word. Once, when Dignon and Willie were still little boys, Willie had asked their father why he was crying. The response was a backhand full in the mouth. Dignon can still hear that sound, that awful crack his father’s hand made when it connected with Willie’s teeth. He can still see his brother’s head snap back, and the blood running from his lips and gums while Christmas songs played and pretty lights sparkled.

  “It’s your fault,” his father said that day, glaring at Dignon with disgust. “You did this to me. You did this to him. You did this to all of us. You.”

  The song ends. Another begins a few seconds later.

  Dignon stands, tosses the book aside. He trembles in the shadow of those memories, hands clenched into fists. Sometimes he wishes he could set it all straight, fix everything he’s ever broken, take back every lie he’s ever told, heal every wound he’s ever inflicted, intentional or otherwise. He wants to be clean. He wants to be innocent.

  Mr. Tibbs looks back over his shoulder at him. A sympathetic glint flashes in the cat’s eyes before he turns back to the window and the theater just beyond the glass. His is an uncanny ability to absorb the world free of stipulation, and in quiet moments, when they sit together and Mr. Tibbs gazes at him adoringly, Dignon is witness to an unconditional love he can never achieve himself. Though he loves the cat dearly, he can only hope to one day love him with the same categorical purity with which Mr. Tibbs loves him.

  The cat begins to purr.

  Following his lead, Dignon breathes slowly, steadily, and eventually the tension lessens. His hands unfurl, release, and the trembling ceases. But even now he has no idea what to do with himself, because it is not horror, not all that is ugly and evil and grotesque and sorrowful that overwhelms and paralyzes him. It’s the beauty, the heart-wrenching, magnificent beauty of the world and everything in it, the constancy of it even in dire circumstances and amidst the worst conditions, that leaves him weak, troubled and insignificant.

  He joins Mr. Tibbs at the window. As Dignon pets him, the cat purrs louder but continues to look through the window, all that is happening out there infinitely more intriguing to him than anything within these walls. Dignon considers the street below, and hopes for the same. It is a sheer curtain, this partition separating here from there, and yet, huddled in his little space with his best friend, the outside world seems distant and alien, a universe away.

  Banshees, he thinks, laughing lightly while watching the human zoo. Or maybe we’re the Banshees, Dignon reasons. You and I, Tibbs, apart from the rest, crying out warnings no one notices, and not because they can’t hear our wailing, but because they choose not to.

  Nikki, a woman who lives next door, emerges from her building and stands on the front steps looking around as if gauging the direction of the wind. Her usual pitch-black clothing matches the spiked, multicolored hair that decorates her head. She wears boots with enormous padded platforms that look like something from a ’70’s glam band, carries a huge black purse with a skull and crossbones on it, and sports several facial piercings. Rings adorn every finger of both hands, and though she is covered in winter wear and a thick black duster, Dignon has seen her in summer and knows she has multiple tattoos on her arms, legs and back. Her makeup consists of black lipstick and black liner and shadow that give the effect of spiders nesting around her big, expressive eyes. All of it serves to make her pale skin appear even more so. In her early thirties, she strikes him as too old to still be going with this look, and though her style is deliberate and carefully calculated, Dignon has always thought she was cool and avant-garde in a way he wishes he could be too. He doesn’t know her well, but in the few years she has lived in the neighborhood, Nikki has always been nice to him. She says hello, offers a smile and, despite her ghoulish appearance, usually has something pleasant to say nearly every time they pass each other on the street. She dates both men and women—mostly musicians and artists from their looks—but never the same one too long. She works at one of the more exotic clubs over by Willie’s apartment, a place he has never been to but has walked by numerous times. He’s not sure exactly what it is she does there. As he watches her it occurs to him that he doesn’t even know her last name. In fact, the only reason he knows her first name is because Mrs. Rogo once mentioned it to him. Otherwise she would simply be that woman next door. Dignon wonders if that’s how she thinks of him too, as that guy next door. If she thinks of him at all, that is.

  He watches as she finally descends the steps, marveling at how she can maneuver in those boots at all. Her clomping gait in these monstrosities is oddly fascinating, unintentionally comical and inconsistent with Nikki’s otherwise rough and self-possessed appearance.

  A pair of men in suits and dress coats hustle past, undoubtedly on their way to some b
usiness meeting or sales pitch. They slow their manic pace long enough to snicker at Nikki. One of the men points at her boots and barks out a mean and nasty laugh so loud Dignon can actually hear it through the window.

  Nikki scrunches her face up and flips them the finger as she safely reaches the sidewalk. The men laugh and give each other congratulatory jostles as they continue on their way, proud of their effortless malice.

  He feels no connection or kinship to people like that whatsoever, and for this he is grateful. They might as well be lampposts.

  Then again, maybe he’s a hypocrite. No, he tells himself, I’m nothing like those guys. The boots are funny, but they don’t grant me permission to hurt or ridicule her. They’re just boots, what difference does it make what she wears or how she—

  Nikki trips as she crosses under his window, topples from the high boots to the sidewalk. She throws her hands out in front of her to break her fall, but she drops awkwardly, and her shoulder hits the edge of the curb. As her purse falls free and skids off along pavement, she rolls through the remainder of the fall, flops into a puddle and finally comes to rest on her back in the gutter.

  As a handful of passersby stop to help her, one man suddenly turns and looks up at the building, staring directly at the second-floor window, as if whoever stands behind it is to blame.

  Dignon backs away, out of sight.

  * * *

  He cannot remember precisely how long he has sat staring at the phone, but it’s been quite a while. Things have changed, the day is different. He can feel it. The sky is grayer now, the clouds heavier, which diminishes the light through the windows and casts the apartment in a dull hue. Even the air he breathes feels altered. There’s been a shift in…something.

  The radiator against the wall rattles as the basement furnace comes to life. He imagines that ancient ogre squatting, dirty and rusted in the dark cellar below him, a freakish relic leftover from a bygone era. The cellar in this building has always made him uneasy. There’s something creepy about it, with its cement walls, low ceiling, dank odors, and dark corners. There is nothing new down there, only banished things tucked away and forgotten. It is a place no one goes to unless they have to. He remembers the cellar in their home growing up, and a knot quickly tightens in the pit of his stomach. Dignon rubs his eyes until the memories recede. When his vision clears, he again focuses on the telephone, as if willing it to dial the number on its own.

  Could he possess that kind of power without even knowing it? He wonders. Did he somehow cause poor Nikki to fall in the street? Was it his fault? Did he subconsciously will it into reality? He didn’t want her to trip, he’d simply worried about her trying to walk in those boots.

  Visions of the two men in suits crossing a busy street flash in his head. A car slams into them both, sending one into the air and up over the hood before he crashes through the windshield. The other is pinned beneath the front tires, mangled and screaming in bloody agony.

  Heart racing, Dignon blinks rapidly until it all leaves him. Suddenly his flesh turns clammy and cold. Like death, or something close.

  A current of fear arcs through him. Could he be having a heart attack? He seems to remember reading somewhere that people often become gray and clammy before or during heart attacks. He forces a nervous swallow, stands and places a hand against his chest. His heart thumps against his palm. He feels no chest pain or pressure, no aches in his shoulders or pains shooting down his arm, just the fierce pounding. Is he sick? Maybe that’s it, he’s sick and—cancer, could he—could he have cancer? Maybe something inside him is sick, an organ or something. Maybe whatever it is has stopped functioning properly and has become diseased. A tumor, he could have a tumor somewhere and not even realize it.

  On cue, a dull ache pulses across his abdomen.

  Years ago, before he’d quit smoking cigarettes, this would’ve been a perfect time to light up. After a few drags he’d feel better, and yet, he thinks, maybe it’s all those cigarettes he smoked back then that are making him sick now. Maybe it’s the dope he now sometimes smokes instead. Maybe it’s given him cancer that’s growing inside him, spreading and slowly rotting him from the inside out. Maybe it’s in his brain and that’s why he can’t think clearly lately. He envisions black tissue inside him, his lungs and intestines dark and decomposed, sees flashes of him vomiting and soiling himself with blood and feces.

  He closes his eyes against the surging panic.

  Dignon begins to pray. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

  After a few moments, the fear leaves him.

  “Thank you,” he says softly. Though Dignon is a lapsed Catholic and not a terribly religious person, he has prayed to the Virgin Mary since he was a little boy. He has always felt close to her. A small ceramic statue of her he’s had since he was a boy still adorns his bureau, wrapped in a set of rosary beads that once belonged to his mother. It often gives him comfort, but he chooses his prayers to the Holy Mother judiciously, calling upon her only when he feels in desperate need of her divine intervention. She has never let him down, never ignored him, and this time is no exception.

  He sits back on the edge of the bed. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he asks the floor. The carpet in here needs to be cleaned, he thinks. Maybe Wilma was right. Maybe he should never have gone off the depression pills. Or maybe he needs something even stronger. Maybe it’s not a physical affliction he needs to worry about at all, but a mental one. He turns, forces himself to look at the mirror on the back of the bedroom door.

  Could I be crazy? Would I know if I was? Could I tell?

  “How fucking cliché is that?” he sees himself ask. Dignon turns away from his reflection. Pick up the phone. Just pick it up. Do it now. “I can do this,” he says. He grabs the phone and dials before he can change his mind.

  It rings twice, and then: “Hello?”

  It’s her. He recognizes that beautiful voice.

  “Hello?” she says again, this time with uncertainty.

  “Yes—uh—hello,” he says, clearing his throat. “Is Bree Harper there?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi.” Follow the lines you practiced. Stay calm and follow the lines.

  “Who’s calling, please?” She sounds a bit annoyed.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

  “Look, if you’re selling something, I’m really not interested, OK? It’s cool, I know you have a job to do and you’re just trying to earn a living, but—”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” Dignon hesitates a moment. He can hear her breathing. “Actually, uh, my name’s Dignon Malloy, and I was over at the Main Street Park here in town earlier and happened to find a book that had your name and phone number in it. It was on a bench and it looked like maybe it had been left there by mistake, I wasn’t sure—it’s only a paperback—but I thought it might be something you’d want returned or…”

  “It had my name in it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, adding the “ma’am” out of habit from talking to customers for so many years. “I just—I don’t mean to bother you—I just thought maybe you’d lost it, and, I like books myself, and I know I’ve lost some before and would’ve liked to have them returned, so I just wanted to call and let you know I’d found it and…”

  Please say something, he thinks. Please.

  “What was the book?”

  He tells her.

  “Oh, I remember that one. Wow, it’s so nice of you to call…I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

  “Dignon.”

  “Interesting, is that a family name?”

  The question catches him off-guard. She speaks to him like they’re old friends. “Yes.”

  “Well, listen, thanks for the taking the time to call, that’s so sweet.”

  He tightens his grip on the phone. “No problem.”


  “Strange thing is I know I didn’t lose it in the park because I never bring books with me to the park. But obviously I misplaced it at some point and it ended up there somehow.”

  He is relieved she’s forgotten she turned it in at the used bookstore. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she really did lose the book somewhere and someone else turned it in.

  “I would like to get that one back, actually,” she says. “It’s a fascinating book.”

  He nods even though she can’t see him. “If you want to give me your address I can drop it in the mail to you, or, I’m going downtown in a little while—”

  “Oh, you’re right in town too?”

  “Yeah, I—if you’re going to be anywhere near the downtown area later I’d be happy to bring it to you.” She remains silent for several seconds. “We could meet somewhere public,” he adds.

  “You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “I sure would appreciate it, that’s awfully nice of you.”

  “I’ll be downtown in about an hour, is that OK?”

  “Sure, that’s fine. Why don’t we meet at Jerry’s, the coffee shop on Main? Does that work for you?”

  “I’ll be there,” Dignon says through a smile he cannot prevent.

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’ll be the guy near the door holding the book.”

  She laughs. It is the most contagious and amazing sound he’s ever heard.

  “OK, easy enough!” she says. “See you in an hour. And thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “OK, bye.”

  “Bye.”

  She hangs up. Dignon listens to the dead air for several seconds, unable to believe he’s actually pulled this off. The nervousness is gone, replaced with a surprising glee he has not felt in years. He finally returns the phone to the cradle. In an hour he’ll be standing right in front of her. Bree Harper.