Dies Irae Read online

  Dies Irae

  A Novel

  Ruby Spinell

  New York

  Chapter One

  Anybody can see I’m not a writer. I’m into the simplicity of numbers. Unless words lend themselves to use by symbols representing certain values … I mean what use are they? My father, Eliaphus Daniel Janah, knew this. When he asked me to finish his story I figured he had ulterior motives. How much have you written, I asked. One line, he replied. Here is the line: The phone rang in the speakeasy of the Annunciation. What follows is the rendition of an accountant.

  The phone rang in the speakeasy of the Monastery of the Annunciation, shattering the cloistral stillness. There was no one in the phone room to answer it. The buzzing chirping sound carried through the cavernous monastery building to the lay sisters kneading bread dough in the pantry off the refectory kitchen. They heard and ignored it. Two sisters in the chapel on solitary retreat, distracted by the continued ringing, tried in vain to shepherd their scattering thoughts. The young postulant cleaning the novitiate directly overhead felt a piercing sadness. While she lived in this house she would never again have a telephone call from her parents.

  A door opened at the end of a long hall. The vsish-vsish of straw alpargatas padding broke the silence as a tall figure in a brown and grey habit and black veil came quickly along and thrust herself into the phone room, her heavy woolen scapular flying sail-like out behind her.

  She grabbed the phone down from its cradle. “Deo gratias?” That inflective rise again. She heard herself and wondered if she were becoming a bit wary, praising the Lord with a question mark.

  Commiseration deepened her voice as she spoke to the man on the line. The phone room, one of two, collectively called the speakeasy, was a barren room with no windows and two doors. A single forty-five watt bulb burned.

  As she spoke on the phone, Sister Damian of Mary fiddled with the latch on the ‘turn.’ This curious contraption, intriguing first-time visitors to a cloistered monastery, was a large wooden barrel that had been sawed in half from top to bottom and set in the wall.

  Hollow and revolving, this free-wheeling device allowed items to pass from hand to hand while the parties remained unseen. Visitors to the lobby of the monastery placed articles for the nuns on its shelves. The sister on ‘turn’ duty sent gifts to the laity.

  Absentmindedly, Sister Damian swung the barrel left, then right; it was gliding easy again since they oiled the bearings. It must be about time for the mail delivery, she thought, I may as well leave it open. She swung it so the solid wall of the barrel faced her, the opening facing out into the lobby.

  The front doorbell rang. She excused herself to the man on the phone and buzzed it open. Footsteps came right up to the wall.

  “Deo gratias!” This time her tone was fervent and ringingly positive.

  A muffled voice said, “Afternoon sister, these are for you. Poor you.” He sounded like he had a cold. She waited, watching the drum make little balancing motions as he placed the packages.

  “Take care of that cold!” There was no sound. She heard the front porch groan and realized he had gone, moving very quickly.

  Poor man. What he needed was a cup of camomile tea. Trouble with these walls, you couldn’t see when a simple charity was needed. You put out all the antennae you possessed, listened with your whole being, but you were never sure what was going on out there. At times she agreed that this was an outmoded aspect of cloister. She returned to Mr. Oliver holding patiently on the line.

  “She’s going to take the kids, Sister, I can’t bear her taking the kids!” Sister Damian, picturing the quiet in that usually rambuctious house, winced at the lonesomeness. Murmuring something sympathetic, she swung the drum inward.

  Usually there were a few packages, small gifts from the sisters’ families, a smattering of letters, pleas for prayers, bills. So routine was it that her hand went instinctively to gather up the envelopes before taking the packages and placing them on the shelf to the side.

  Something slid awkwardly as her fingers brushed it. Sister Damian stared in horror at the drum. On the upper shelf, three hands with very jagged wrist bones protruding had been placed wrist to wrist in a grisly star. The one she had touched slid forward on a slug track of fluid. The fingers curved upward, beckoning. She stepped quickly backwards. Her gaze lowered. On the bottom shelf stood three hacked off feet. Their toes splayed out, perhaps caught in the act of grasping the ground from which they had been delivered. She stood mesmerized by one big toe that was three times the size of the others.

  Senior Detective Eliaphus Daniel Janah sat in a divided room. One wall had been removed and replaced with a ponderous black grill. Fat black bars stationed six inches behind the grillwork reinforced its message.

  He looked into the adjoining room, a very somber place with its black cross hanging on the wall and its uncompromising chair. Shaking his head in disbelief, he caught himself and sat upright, feeling for the moment as if he were being watched. Ahh, he’d seen too many peepholes in movies like “The Rose” and “Agnes of God.”

  An hour ago the lieutenant had given him this assignment. “It’s your turf, Eli.”

  “I’m Jewish! Don’t know a thing about cloistered monasteries except what I’ve seen in the movies.”

  “Well … Jewish … Catholic … same thing.” Eli must have looked as disconcerted as he felt, for Morley pulled the cigar from his mouth and shrugged. “You know … come from the same seed ’n’ all, don’t they? Same stock. One’s waiting. One said he came. Same thing.”

  So he had arrived, rung the front doorbell. Had the door buzzed open by phantom hands? He had spoken to the sister hidden somewhere behind the big wooden barrel. Asked for Sister Damian. Been instructed through another buzzered door. And here he was before this monstrosity of iron. What a place! Surely a different world!

  There were muffled sounds, footsteps, and every now and then bells rang in different combinations. After the voice at the barrel said she would ring for Sister Damian, he counted six rings.

  Coltish, he thought, as she came into the room. He winced at his assessment. How, Eli, can a cloistered nun be considered coltish? She looked directly into his eyes. He was six foot three. She maneuvered somehow between the bars and grillwork that were hampering him, and for a minute he caught a complete face, full coral lips, quizzical, grey eyes.

  She thrust a hand through and gripped the crosspiece on the grillwork on his side in an unspoken gesture of reassurance. She sat very still, seeming to realize that he needed time to acclimatize. Then she introduced herself and asked him to sit down.

  “How can I be of help, Detective? I’ve spoken with so many policemen already.” Her voice was strong, yet quite soft.

  “I understand, Sister, but I’m the one who has to find the bodies to go with the parts you had delivered.” Her body gave a slight quiver. Great, Eli! Keep on.

  She sat then in the chair and he immediately lost her eyes, disappearing behind a bar. Leaning over on one haunch to see if that would throw the face opposite him into some kind of whole, he realized suddenly how much he was accustomed to read from peoples’s faces, that he depended on the features playing together.

  He leaned forward and saw that the mouth opposite him was turned up at the corners. “You get used to it, Detective,” she said, rearranging her chair. Now he had a clear view of the flicker in the grey eyes.

  He should probably be grateful she had a face to show. Special permission had to be obtained from a superior to lift her veil.

  “Please, Sister, if you would tell it to me as if you never told it before.”

  Looking steadily at him, she began.

  “I was working in ‘the breads,’ they are the rooms where we bake, sort, and package altar br
eads, readying them for mailing to the parishes. I was called to the speakeasy by the phone.” She laughed, and the flicker picked up a gleam of purple light. “That’s the novices’ name for the front turn. It wasn’t a very eventful day.” Eli wondered what might be eventful in a cloister. “At least until then. I wasn’t expecting anything except the usual heartbreaks one hears at the turn.” A fine wrinkle creased her brow. She did not seem at all harassed, but told her story calmly.

  “The mail was due.” She was looking down now at her cupped hands resting on her scapular. Mid-forties, Eli thought. Hands don’t lie.

  “You thought it was the usual mailman? Or was there an intimation it was someone else? Did you notice his walk?”

  “My attention was divided, I don’t know that I noticed his walk.”

  “But you knew it was a man?”

  “Oh yes.” There was no hesitation in her voice. “I knew as soon as he was against the wall that it was a man … a tall man.”

  “How tall is your usual mailman?”

  “About five foot seven.” She was silent, thinking of the consequences of that.

  When she didn’t continue, he spoke. “Before the individual spoke, you knew it was a man and you knew it wasn’t your usual mailman. Have you extra sense, Sister?” That may have been a bit wry, but he said it very gently. He was having trouble with bars and grills, and she could see through walls.

  Two little spots of color appeared high on her cheekbones. “I don’t have extra sense, Detective Janah. I’m a religious, not a psychic.” He tried very hard not to smile and succeeded.

  “You thought he had a cold? Would you explain that?”

  “Well, it sounds ridiculous, Detective, but I thought he said, ‘Poor you.’ That wouldn’t make any sense. His voice was muffled, the kind of stuffiness you hear from someone with a good head cold.”

  “He may have known you.” Neither of them said anything further for a few minutes. There was a great calm about the woman, Eli thought, despite the pain lines in the face, maybe because of the pain.

  She seemed to be lost in reverie. “I knew he had gone when I felt the emptiness and heard the board on the porch.” She went on to talk about the loose board that the carpenter had checked and nailed down, the loose board that still squeaked, but Eli had the feeling her mind was somewhere else.

  She repeated herself, “I knew he was gone when I heard that board and felt the emptiness on the other side of the wall.”

  “You don’t have an extra sense, yet you feel through walls.”

  “Ah, Detective, that’s different.” She searched for a word and then abandoned it. “A human being generates a lot of energy.” She smiled, causing the worry lines to join hands with the laugh lines and form a dimple on the right side of her face. The left side looked curiously sedate in contrast.

  The wicked glitter of purple was back. “You, for one, have generated your own brand of electro-magnetic energy since arriving. Everyone does. You came right in up to the grill; many hang back. I knew you were male. I knew how tall you were.”

  Quite suddenly she looked embarrassed at the turn of her meanders. Briskly then, “I’ve worked the turn for many years, your senses become very keen, you must know this from your work.” She swallowed her tongue on that, remembering how dumb she had felt talking to the empty hall. “It certainly isn’t extra sense or any of that kind of foolishness.”

  Eli nodded agreement, and tucked away a reminder to pursue it again. “I’m very grateful for your patience, Sister. Would you kindly go through actually seeing the hands and feet for the first time? Any thoughts at all that come to mind.” He tried to radiate calm electro-magnetic energy.

  Sister Damian of Mary did not regain community immediately. When detective Janah left, she stood quietly in neutral country. She hoped Sister Alice, who was working the turn, did not get curious. Maybe she wasn’t in the front of the house when he let himself out; there would be no question then about the closed door to the speak. Good-hearted. Always bustling, though. Oozing with sweetness and charity when one’s need was for silence and quiet. How she could ooze thus without breaking into actual speech was beyond her, yet this was Sister Alice’s specialty.

  Sister Damian gave a deep, audible sigh and sat down in the black chair again. The floor was varnished to a high shine, with not a speck of dust on it. The three foot high black cross hanging on the wall held no figure of the crucified Christ; each novice was piously told to reflect on who now belonged there.

  As a young woman seeking entry, she had been impressed by three things at her first interview: the grill, the clean floor, and the starkness of the cross—the immutable sacrifice.

  The sounds of Evening Prayer drifted through from the east wing, the nuns in chapel. Strange seepage. She remembered wondering how everyone knew what was going on in a house that did not talk but one hour of the day. Years in the cloister had taught her that an efficient network of sounds, silences, and intangible currents was constantly at work.

  And so the unrest spread from the turn room today onward and upward until reaching the infirmary at the far western corner of the annex where old Sisters Philip and Barbara threw their water jugs in unison at good old gentle Sister Patrick, the infirmarian. Of course they knew not what they did; everyone knew they were quite senile. Even so.

  It is difficult if not impossible to describe human remains in the sign language the sisters used to communicate the essentials. A lot of whispering ensued. From there it was a matter of degree. Heavy feet pounding. The running of the wire and phone jacks into the extern quarters. Click of cameras. The police initially whispered, but quite soon their voices rose to the level of men involved in their work.

  The lovely sound of plainchant fell on her fevered brow. Then the chanting stopped. The lights were being turned off, the sisters filing out, youngest first. Off to the refectory for the evening meal.

  The thought of food made her stomach lurch. Oh, they had scrubbed that wood. When the police finally left they bleached and SOS’d the shelves to a fine blond. In the enclosed space the fumes nearly knocked them off their feet.

  The detective in charge … somewhat tightly held? Maybe just the newness of the situation. He was Jewish; the eyes, the wavy hair gone to grey at the temples, definitely Jewish. But, of course, that would not be allowed to interfere with an investigation.

  He carried himself easily; there was power there, but it was under control.

  He dressed very well for a detective. Maybe they’re changing too. All the books, well, she really hadn’t read that many, but one hears this and that. Detectives are described as unkempt and slouchy, old food stains on ties, that sort of thing. She hadn’t seen any stains, but some wear and tear, definitely wear and tear. He was very cool, very controlled with his questions. Professional, not overriding. I swear he was laughing, though. At least once, I know he was laughing and trying hard not to show it.

  It was time to rejoin the community. Oh Mother, help! She uttered the words silently with all her strength, bowed her head and sat like that for a few more minutes. Then she rose and put out the light.

  Chapter Two

  Paws and boots but no pussy, woe is me.” He hit a foot pedal under the table. A voice-activated microphone on a fine metal arm swung out from an overhead flood. The microphone, no bigger than a silver bullet, hit the bulbous nose. “Noses maybe, but no pussy.” Eli smiled to himself. Manny’s scatological turns of phrase occasionally made Eli blush, yet he was the gentlest guy. Eli trusted him with his youngest daughter.

  The low whine again. The bullet whipped six inches, stopped, swung erratically, and finally hung stable. “Thought you worked homicide?” Manny Bozeman pursed orangutan lips and peered at him from under a single, untrimmed hedge of eyebrow. “Ain’t none here.”

  Eliaphus Daniel Janah stood opposite the parade of single file hands and feet. His gaze on one foot, he was thinking of National Geographic photos of ears, pointed heads, long lips.

  He
gestured with his head at the foot, “A new feat in accentuating a foot.”

  Manny shot him a look of disbelief. “You know they don’t belong together.” This was neither question nor declarative statement.

  Emmanuel (Manny) Bozeman put out his hand and pointed with his finger like a prissy teacher, gesturing to the hand at the head of the class, “That is a woman’s … fortyish … maybe forty-five. Every one here, except one,” the orangutan pursed, “is at least forty. Two are close to eighty. Two have been pickled; they’ve been sitting in Formalin for over a year. Two have been frozen. Two are fresh.” He wrinkled his nose. “Well … not so all-fired fresh they don’t stink. They’ve been refrigerated for about seven weeks. Two women, four men … I’ll have it written up nice and neat. In fact, if Sue’s here,” he hesitated, “I’ll have it in your box in an hour. By the way, all were taken alive.”

  Deciding not to wait, Eli took Route 100 North. Where it curved, bypassing Valhalla, he braked inadvertently. At least I no longer flick the right directional, ruefully at that … ahh. He drove the Nissan Sentra in at the first gate of the community college and through the middle of two almost empty parking lots, heading for the fuller one close to the library building. He eased between a seventy-nine Dodge truck with a license reading I GLIP and a new Ford pickup with a full gun rack. The working class had all gone back to school.

  When he asked the young librarian where he would find information on the Congregation of Prompt Succor, he thought her eyes resembled the scene in 2001 where the embryo is being shot through vast reaches of empty cosmos. He did not know what women did to their hair anymore. The unkempt look, the rattier the better. No soft waves or curls, nothing to stroke. Everything frazzled and uncombed. Like Mir’s when she got up in the morning, when she was absorbed in a piece. Hair that signaled, ‘Do not pet the lion.’

  “It’s a religious community, a Catholic religious community,” said the young woman as she directed him to the second floor stacks.