James Swain - Shadow People

“But he got out of it,” Max said.

“Barely.”

“But he did. And I’m guessing he got out of it the second time as well. Which means he has the situation under control, and we should not meddle in his affairs. The shadow person is visiting him for a reason, and it’s Peter’s responsibility, not ours, to find out what it is.”

Max rolled a shiny silver dollar across his knuckles as he spoke. Holly slapped the table in anger, and the coin jumped from Max’s hand to the floor.

“Our responsibility is to help each other whenever possible,” she said, the rage boiling over in her voice. “Peter needs help, the rules be damned. If you won’t come to his aid, I’ll go it alone. I’m not going to abandon him.”

“I didn’t say that,” the old magician said defensively.

“You most certainly did. Peter thinks of you as his father, and yet you refuse to help him. How can you be so thoughtless?”

Max looked to Milly for help. “Please explain to your niece what I’m trying to say.”

“I thought you were doing a perfectly miserable job of it yourself,” Milly told him. To Holly she said, “What Max is trying to say is this. Peter seems to need our help, but he may not need our help. This may simply be some kind of test Peter must endure. I know I agreed with you earlier that we must help Peter, but now I’m not so sure. All psychics go through learning phases during their lives when the spirit world makes contact with them for reasons that are never quite clear. Peter is now in one of those phases.”

“A learning phase? How quaint. When have any of you ever had a gun put to the side of your head during a séance?” Holly crossed her arms and awaited a response. “I’m waiting.”

The ticking grandfather clock in the corner kept time to their silence. Holly had challenged them, and drawn an imaginary line in the sand. Who would cross it first?

“Peter’s different,” Lester said quietly. “We are all psychics, but Peter is special. You must accept that, Holly.”

“You don’t think he could have been killed?”

Lester thought about it, and shook his head. “No,” he said for emphasis.

“For God’s sake, I saw him writhing around on the floor in his bedroom. If his girlfriend hadn’t shaken him awake, he’d have died.”

“Hooray for his girlfriend,” Lester said.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” the Scottish psychic said. “Peter beat the Devil, and has learned from the experience. These are lessons we must not deny him.”

“Are you telling me that this is some kind of master plan?” Holly asked.

“Our fate is bestowed upon us the day we’re born,” Lester explained. “This is Peter’s fate. You must stop interfering. For your own sake, and his as well.”

“Here, here,” Max said. “Do you agree, Homer?”

“I do. We must let Peter fend for himself.”

Holly could not believe how poorly they were acting. Peter had come to their aid so many times she’d lost count. Yet now they refused to help him during his time of need.

“Do you agree with this nonsense?” she asked her aunt.

“I’m afraid that after some consideration I do, my dear,” Milly said. “We must not interfere. If Peter feels he needs our help, we’re but a phone call away. We can stand on the sidelines and watch, but we must not jump in. In the psychic world, there is no room for the uninvited.”

Holly had heard the term before. The uninvited were psychics who didn’t play by the rules, and upset the natural balance of the universe. They were pariahs, and shunned by their peers. It should have been enough to stop her, only this was Peter they were talking about, the boy who’d lit the candle in her heart. She suddenly realized that the object of the meeting tonight wasn’t about helping Peter but getting Holly to stop interfering in his life. She rose from her seat. “Thank you for granting me an audience tonight. I am sure this is not the first time we’ll disagree. But in the end, we will all remain friends, and that’s the most important thing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go home.”

Her aunt’s apartment was thirty-six hundred square feet. That was bigger than many houses in New York. Holly’s footsteps followed her down the hallway to the coat closet. She pulled her winter coat off a hanger and felt a presence behind her.

“Let me help you with that.”

Max helped her into her coat. He seemed embarrassed by what had happened, as well he should. Holly had turned twenty-one only a short time ago. She was old enough to drink and vote, and did not appreciate being treated like a child.

“You’re angry with me,” Max said.

“Whatever gave you that idea, Max?” She removed the scarf from her pocket and tied it around her neck. “I asked you to help, and you said no. Why should I be angry?”

“You don’t understand the gravity of this.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m still in diapers.”

“I’m closer to that than you are.”

“I’m in no mood for jokes, Max. What don’t I understand?”

“Peter is different than we are.”

“I know that. But does that make the rules different as well?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“I’m not buying that for one minute, Max. I think you’re all scared of that evil thing we saw last night, and want nothing more to do with it, Peter’s safety be damned.”

Max started to speak, then thought better of it. The expression on his face said it all. There was something he wanted to tell her, yet chose to hold back instead. It was all Holly could do not to scream. She headed for the front door, ready to go home.

“Wait.”

Max made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. From out of nowhere appeared two beautiful bouquets of red and gold feather flowers. Max’s flower trick was one of Holly’s favorites, the bouquets’ hiding place on the old magician’s clothing still a mystery. Tonight, the trick had the opposite effect on her, and she grabbed the bouquets from his hands, and angrily shook them in his face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and before she knew it, she was crying.

“Oh, Holly, I’m so sorry,” he said.

He put his arms around her, and let Holly cry on his shoulder.

Peter loved Mondays. His theater was dark, and with Liza glued to his side, he’d set about to explore the city’s hundreds of different ethnic neighborhoods. Finding them was a challenge, and part of the fun. Many of the smaller ones weren’t on any map, nor did any of the guidebooks list them, except for the obvious spots like Chinatown and Little Italy. Liza had a cool trick that usually worked. They’d walk into a restaurant and read all the items on the menu. If half the stuff sounded foreign, they knew they’d found another.

Only this particular Monday was different. He’d woken up in a dark mood, and Liza had shoved him out of bed with the words, “You promised, Peter. Today’s the day.”

He’d put on nice clothes while she’d taken a shower. Instead of a leisurely breakfast, they’d noshed on bagels and sucked down coffee. Then out the door they went into the chilly morning. As Peter’s feet hit the sidewalk, he nearly turned around. Why he’d ever agreed to see a relationship counselor, he had no idea. A moment of weakness, he supposed. Men said stupid things when they were in love.

But there was more to it than that. He was going because he didn’t want Liza to pack up and leave, which was how his other relationships had ended. That was a good reason, and he should have been okay with it, only he wasn’t. Spilling his guts to a stranger just seemed wrong, and he hoped the whole thing didn’t blow up in his face.

Dr. Raul Sierra worked out of a somber building the color of ash. Across the street was NYU’s Medical Center, which his practice was affiliated with. According to his online profile, Sierra was an authority on guiding couples through difficult periods in their lives. The photo on his Web site showed a rather frail little man with an unruly mop of black hair that resembled a bird’s nest. He looked harmless, but looks were deceiving. Sierra hadn’t gotten to be one of the world’s foremost authorities on relationships without being a good interrogator, and Peter guessed he was in for a long morning.