Anyways. That was kid stuff.
More important things were ahead.
The cops came to the convent and questioned him.
Did not question him at first but expressed their—condolences, they called it. But it was all a mockery, of course. Everybody knew that the old fraud had abused Ozzie and his mother. Beaten them both. Neighbors on more than one occasion had summoned the cops to the house and they led the old fraud off to the jail. But he never reached court because the cops said that his Ma would have to make an official complaint, swear out a warrant, and she would never do a thing like that because the fraud would come home sooner or later and beat them both up worse than ever if she did.
“Where were you the night your Pa was killed?” Police Sergeant McAllister asked in his soft voice, his blue eyes mild. He didn't wear a uniform. He wore a green plaid jacket. He spoke like a teacher or a priest.
“Right here in the convent,” Ozzie spoke up, and only a moment later realized that the cops had not come here merely to say they were sorry his Pa was dead, after all.
Sister Anunciata piped up, her voice shrill and angry, the voice she used on kids like Bull Zimmer and the wise guys. “He was here the entire night.” Eyes blazing like small fires.
“Now, now, Sister, these are just questions we have to ask,” Officer McAllister replied in his mild, unhurried way. “And answers we have to obtain. For the record.” He scratched his graying hair. “Now, Mr. Slater was murdered sometime between nine and eleven in the evening. With his own hammer that was always kept in the shed. So we have to question the whereabouts of anyone who knew about the hammer and who might have been around his place. Maybe the somebody who was around there that night might have seen something to help us.” Then looking at Ozzie: “See what I mean?”
“I was in here all night,” he said, wondering whether he ought to put this quiet-talking but quite dangerous policeman on his list.
“Mister, this place is never empty or still,” Sister Anunciata said. “Ozzie is a good boy. He is in our charge. We know when he comes and goes. That night, he was here the entire time. Even if he tried to sneak out—which our Ozzie would never do—one of us would have seen him. You may take my word….”
“And I do, Sister,” the officer said, tipping his head toward her. “The word of a Sister of Mercy is good enough for the police….”
But Sister Anunciata was still on fire with anger.
“And I don't like the implication of a boy his age doing a thing like that to his own father….”
“Ah, but you see, Sister, it was not his own father.” And turning to Ozzie: “Was he now?”
“He was a fake and fraud,” Ozzie said, saying the words out loud and pleased to be saying them, the words he had said to himself so many thousands of times. “My mother married him because she needed a roof over her head. She didn't love him. Nobody could love him. He was a mean man.” His sniveling strawberry nose was proof of that, and they all knew it. “And I can't say that I'm sorry he's dead. But I didn't do it.” It was easy to lie when you were in the right.
“No one's accusing you, Ozzie,” Sister Anunciata said, her rosary beads in her hands.
Close call, Ozzie thought later. Better lie low for a while. Bide his time, wait, he was patient at waiting.
Kelcey's was still his favorite target and he stole in the store on occasion and knocked down a display or two. Heard the stories circulating in the town that Kelcey's store was haunted. Visited the store every few days and didn't see many people in the place now. Who wanted to trade in a place that might be haunted? He picked up the conversations as he sauntered along the streets, pausing to eavesdrop, listening to the talk. But he didn't linger long, afraid an urge might come upon him.
More and more when he was gone, unseen, disappeared, the urges came to him, nudging him, tugging at him, first faintly, hardly noticeable, and then stronger as time went on. He fought against the urges because they interrupted him, prevented him from doing what he had planned to do.
One day, the voice grew out of the urges. He'd stopped by the alley as usual, drawn himself into a corner to become unseen, planning to frolic a bit in the town. He came out of the alley, feeling his oats, standing in the sun, proud of having disappeared, proud that no one could see him. He spotted a young woman across the street pushing a baby carriage, a long black pigtail down her back. She paused, bent over, and glanced into the carriage, to see if the baby was fine. He wondered if his mother had pushed him in a carriage like that. Couldn't remember even seeing a carriage around the tenement. Felt sad watching them. The urge told him to cross the street and—he turned away from the thought, the urge—do something to them. Strike them down. Who? Both of them. Make them hurt. But I don't want to do that.
Ah, yes, you do. It's better than fooling around Kelcey's.
But I want to have fun with Kelcey today.
The woman is more important than Kelcey. So is the baby. Hurt them. Hurt them both.
I don't even know that woman. I don't even know that baby.
You don't have to know them to hurt them.
The voice began to plague him after that. Crazy conversations. Conversations that really weren't conversations at all. Sometimes it seemed like there was somebody else inside of him or as if there were two sides of him, as if he were split in half like an apple.
Shut up, he sometimes told that voice, that other side of him. And sometimes that other side of him shut up. Sometimes didn't. When that happened, he came out of the unseen to get away from the voice. Like that day across the street from the woman and the baby carriage. He stepped back into the alley and found his corner and pressed himself into appearing. That got rid of the voice.
Then, heading back to the convent, Ozzie did something he hated to do. Gave himself away to sadness. He did not allow this to happen very often. But sometimes, first thing in the morning or, like now, when he was alone on the road back from town to the convent, sniveling, a lonesomeness came to him and he wished he were still a little baby and his mother rocked him and sang to him. He wished, too, for someone to talk to, someone to tell about the incredible thing that had happened. Could he tell Sister Anunciata? Maybe he could, maybe he couldn't. Sister Anunciata often came in his room at night and ran her hand across his brow, murmuring Poor Ozzie boy. He always turned away, then felt more lonesome than ever.
Then a bad thing happened.
He was spotted by old man Pinder in the alley as he underwent the change from seen to unseen. The discovery occurred on a Saturday afternoon when Ozzie had sauntered downtown to have more fun at the expense of Kelcey. He basked in the power of what he had done to Kelcey, but he was disappointed too. His biggest disappointment in his unseen state was his inability to steal from the store because anything he might take—money from the register or the groceries themselves—would be visible, would seem to float in the air and create all kinds of disturbance. One night, he broke into two other stores on Main Street, first into Demp-sey's Drug Store and another time into the Ramsey Diner. Broke small windows in the night, crawled through, was dismayed with the small amount of cash he found in the registers—a total of $23.55 from both places. After that, he bided his time about the stealing, waiting for the day when he would pull off a real big robbery—like at the Ramsey Savings Bank, when the Brink's truck picked up thousands of dollars in big burlap bags. He would have to figure a way to get the bags from the scene and stash them away somewhere, but knew he could do it. It would be a carefully planned robbery like in the movies with enough loot to get him out of this town and on his way in the world. But now he waited and indulged in small invasions of the town and sweet torments to the likes of that appetizing Kelcey. It was one of these times downtown that he stepped into the alley behind the five-and-ten that the old man spotted him. Ozzie had believed himself alone and he faced the wall, leaning against it, to give slight support to the pressing he had to do to change from here to gone. He turned around, satisfied at disappearing,
and heard a noise to his right, like a small animal scrabbling away. Whirled and saw the old man heading lickety-split out of the alley, glancing over his shoulder at the place where Ozzie had disappeared, his eyes bulging in disbelief.
Ozzie stood there indecisively, yet knew what he must do. Kill the old man before he told anybody. Silence him forever. He ran quickly to the mouth of the alley, saw the old man weaving his way along the wooden sidewalk, shaking his head as he walked toward the diner. Where, Ozzie knew, he would try to beg a drink. Harmless old buzzard, probably thought he'd been seeing things, a vision from the booze or his hangover or both. Ozzie let him go. Wait and see. Who would believe the old codger anyways if he told them he'd seen Ozzie Slater disappear from sight in the alley? He remembered how the old man gave him his coat when they slept together on cold nights and assured him that his mother was a real lady, a fine figure of a woman. Let him go, for now.
Then another bad thing happened.
The urge, stronger than ever.
The urge took possession of him when he reached the corner of Main and Cotton, across from the library, and saw the library woman coming down the steps. She was beautiful. Small and dainty, took quick small steps like a little girl trying to catch up to someone who had left her behind. He sneaked into the library now and then to glance through the magazines but mostly to keep warm on cold days or dry on rainy ones. She never told him to leave the library, always greeted him in her musical voice. He knew that someday if he married, he would search for someone like her.
Now she clicked off down the sidewalk, head high, walking quick as always, wearing pink. The sight of her cheered him up. He sighed as he watched the loveliness of her moving through the summer morning.
Then, the sly voice within him:
You know what you should do to her.
What?
You know.
No, I don't.
Yes, you do.
You tell me.
Hurt her.
No.
You're only saying no. You mean yes, don't you? You want to do it, don't you?
Shut up, he cried, shut up.
And began running. Away from the librarian and away from Main Street toward the convent and safety, away from the voice that he couldn't really run away from. The voice was with him, inside him.
He did not run far. Down to the corner of Spruce and Pine and paused. Drew in a deep breath.
The voice: Go back.
And he went. Back to Main, rushing, feet flying over the concrete, unseen and free to run, nobody to observe his flight as he stayed on the street, away from the wooden sidewalk where his footsteps would be heard.
She was passing Kelcey's now and then Dempsey's. She crossed over to the Ramsey Diner and turned left on Spring. His mind leapt ahead, trying to figure out her destination and what secret places were located on her way, where he could seize her and drag her out of sight.
She clicked along on those high heels, looking neither right nor left, her tan legs glistening in the sun, her black hair bouncing softly in the same rhythm as her body. His mind raced ahead. If she continued straight out this way, past Blossom and Summer, she would pass directly in front of the old Barnard place, all gone now and the cellar hole covered with brush. Perfect for what he would do to her. His hands tingled with anticipation, squeezing open and shut, the way they would squeeze her, squeeze that lovely slender neck, squeeze and squeeze until—
She stopped walking, coming to a quick halt right in the middle of the sidewalk. Didn't turn right or left but stopped in her tracks. Like a mannequin in a store window. Trapped in one spot.
Had he grown careless? Had she heard his footsteps? Or did she feel his presence, the way some people did?
She began to walk again, hurrying, legs flashing in the sun like scissors, almost running in her haste, and he ran, too, but carefully, running on his tiptoes, careful not to make any noise, had to be careful.
She stopped again. Only fifteen feet or so in front of him. He stopped too. She turned and looked his way, looked straight at him. As if she could see, although she couldn't. Fear in the look too.
That was when the dog attacked.
The dog did not bark or even growl. Ozzie never heard the dog approaching, but was suddenly almost knocked down when it bounded into him, teeth bared, long yellow teeth.
Then he heard a low and deadly growl. But the dog, a German shepherd, was thoroughly confused after that first assault, drew back, growling still but a whine in the growl. Ozzie recovered, held his ground.
“Nice doggie,” Ozzie whispered, voice low and confidential.
The dog froze at the sound of the voice, then lifted its pointed nose, whined a bit, and Ozzie chuckled, thinking what the dog would be thinking, seeing nobody there, but feeling someone there and hearing a voice from out of the nothing.
Ozzie made ready to kick the dog, this intruder into his pursuit of the librarian, but he held back when he glanced up to see the librarian almost running up the flagstone walk leading to a red-brick house, a sleek and shining car in the driveway. She disappeared inside.
“Shit;’ he said.
And blamed the dog.
The dog lingered nearby, not a threat to him now, puzzled, head tilted.
Ozzie felt cheated.
Kick him.
Yes.
He walked to the dog and gave him a mighty boot, right into the soft part of the belly, and the dog leapt into the air, howling with pain, legs stiff with fright at the surprise of the attack, then went scurrying down the street, howling and whining. Maybe that was the sound a dog makes when it cries.
He watched it go, smiling, chuckling, and the voice said: Nice.
But he did not answer the voice, afraid the voice might be mad at him for losing the library woman.
He waited for old man Pinder at the mouth of the alley, knew he would stop up here sooner or later, in the gathering darkness, at the end of the day. Sure enough, as darkness settled on the town like soot, the old man came shuffling up Main Street, his feet dragging on the wooden sidewalk. As he turned into the alley, Ozzie stepped in front of him.
“How do you do, old man?” he asked brightly.
“Ozzie, Ozzie,” old man Pinder said, falling back a little, wetting his lips. Always wetting his lips, always needing a drink.
They walked into the alley, the booze smell awful, not the sweet smell of the gin his mother drank but the sour cellar smell of muscatel and a touch of vomit, to boot.
“How you been, old man?” Ozzie asked.
The old man shrugged inside his two overcoats and probably two or three sweaters. Hot or cold, winter or summer, he always dressed the same. Then he turned to Ozzie and Ozzie saw the fear in his eyes, the cringing fear that said: Don't hit me, don't hurt me.
“Hey, take it easy, old man,” Ozzie said. “Nobody's going to do nothing to you….”
And suddenly he wanted to share with the old man the incredible thing that had happened to him, being gone and unseen. He had kept the secret to himself until it felt like something boiling in a pot, reaching the point of blowing off the lid.
“Sit down, old man,” he said. And the old man sat, crumpled to the ground, next to the rubbish barrels from Demp-sey's, back against the dull brick wall. “I want to show you something.” Hell, he already knew about it anyways, didn't he?
The light slanted in from Main Street and Ozzie felt like he was about to perform on a stage. Then, glancing to see that no one else was about, he pressed forward, breath taken away and then coming back, the sweep of pain and he was gone. Gone into the cold as well.
“I didn't see you do that,” the old man called out, eyes blinking furiously, yellow-coated tongue darting out as he spoke. “I don't see nothing, don't know nothing.” Then, still blinking but squinting too: “Where are you, Ozzie?”
“Right here,” he said, shouting in the old man's ear so that he almost leapt out of his coats and sweaters.
For the next few minutes he ente
rtained the old guy, making stuff dance in the air, crap he took out of the rubbish barrels, and then making the barrels jump and turn and crash to the ground. The old man cackled and laughed, holding his sides sometimes, but Ozzie looked at him craftily now and then, and saw something behind the laughing, and knew that the old man really was scared to death.
So Ozzie told the old man that he wasn't seeing things and he did not have the DT's. This was Ozzie Slater, all right, Ozzie who was his friend, the same Ozzie he gave shelter to in the night, who was showing off this incredible thing that had happened to him (but Ozzie did not tell him about what he did to the old fraud, of course, or the damage to Kelcey's) and the fun he had, the fun the two of them could now have.
“Fun?” The old man was bewildered, shaking from the booze or the need for booze.
“I'll show you what I mean by fun,” Ozzie said. He pulled the old man to his feet and dragged him down the alley where the back windows of Ramsey Liquors looked out on a small porch.
“Watch,” Ozzie said.
He broke the window near the back door, carefully removed all the pieces of glass, then slipped through. He knew the old man drank muscatel because it was the cheapest stuff he could buy, but Ozzie now sought out the good stuff, the Scotch the old man used to talk about, the sting of the Scotch the old man drank as a young man on a Saturday night down in Boston in the good times. Ozzie grabbed two bottles from the shelf, kept low because he didn't want anyone passing by to see bottles floating in the air. He made his way out of there, placed the two bottles on the back steps, enjoyed the look on the old man's face. Like Christmas had come in the middle of summer.
Back in the alley again, after the old man had settled down but before he had swallowed too much of the booze, Ozzie swore him to secrecy, describing the fun they could have together, the booze Ozzie could supply him with, and all Ozzie would require was the old man's silence and to keep his eyes and ears open downtown and report anything he heard, anything he heard at all, that pertained to Ozzie.