Holy Water

I am not sure how I first heard that a monkey had escaped from the zoo, a mandrill to be exact. I had been in my new condominium no more than a week and planned on inviting Susie to move in with me at the first opportune moment, perhaps at a violin concert I mentioned a few days earlier. Late that night, unable to sleep for worrying about the mandrill, I watched an interminable demonic possession movie on television. I fell asleep on the couch and in the early morning had a dream that clearly spun off from the film.

A child in a black nightshirt lay on the white sheet of a bed. The priests worked on the child while I stood back, ready to help if called upon. Both priests wore the black cassock. The older, with a full head of flowing white hair, stood near the bed, his back to me, reading from a book of incantations. The younger stood behind him, holding a black cross encrusted with pearls in one hand, and in the other, an empty plastic bottle.

The child twitched wildly as the older priest held his free hand to the side, shouting, “Holy water, Father Franklyn,” whereupon Father Franklyn looked around in desperation. “The bottle,” the old priest repeated. Father Franklyn called out, “Father Anselm, I became dehydrated. Thinking this was simply water you provided, I drank of it.” Father Anselm reeled about with a face gripped by horror, shouting, “You drank the holy water?”

The shamefaced priest turned to me and whispered, “Every drop.” The shock that flared through my body could not have been more powerful had I been set afire. Father Anselm grabbed Father Franklyn by the arm, shouting ferociously, “We must have that holy water, Father Franklyn! The child’s life depends on it!” At this alarm, Father Franklin leaped onto the table, lifting his cassock high to sprinkle the child with what remained of holy water. Urine sizzled on the skin as the demon cried in a wretched voice comprised of many wretched voices: “My name is Azazel!”

I screamed and woke to the sound of a truck pulling up outside. My heart beat palpably in my temples as I rushed to see what could be important enough for night delivery. On my front porch, I found a box wrapped in brown paper, yet no delivery man. I felt awkward stepping outside in my childish red-striped pajamas, but I had to see what was going on. Every door in the row of condominiums remained shut, porches uniformly bare. Further, it was not night, but bright, sunny morning. I took the package to my kitchen, set it on the table, and cut the paper with a sharp knife lying on the counter. When I tore the box open, I saw inside the head of Vladimir Putin looking back at me with an accusation I could not comprehend. Instinctively, I plunged the knife into the box but closed my eyes, so I would not see the result of my impulsive action. I fled the kitchen, throwing myself on the couch in the living room to grab my phone off the coffee table.

I called Susie, telling her what had transpired and begging her assistance. As a trained nurse, Susie was more prepared to handle such a crisis. The terrors ran through me like electric shock, over and over. When the doorbell rang, I woke with a start and hurried to the door, falling to my knees as I arrived. I reached up to open the door and saw Susie on the porch in blue scrubs, disheveled but lovely, in her hands a second package in brown paper. She moved her lips, but I could not hear what she was saying. My face burned in shame or fear as I stood, still holding to the door knob for support.

I urged her to follow me into the kitchen, and she did so, carrying the new package, which I now dreaded as much as the first. I turned my eyes away, so as not to see the open box on the kitchen table, and cried out, “There, on the table, look for yourself.” When I heard the rustling of paper, I turned to see Susie opening the package she had carried inside. No trace remained of the box I had opened, with its incriminating evidence. From the new box she withdrew, very carefully, a red and black lacquered wooden bowl, inspecting it before she set it on the table: a fine bowl, smooth to the touch, with a wonderfully deep interior. She read aloud the card that accompanied the bowl, which revealed it as a house-warming gift from the real estate agent who had located the condominium for me.

“Is this what you called me for?” she asked. I looked in her lovely dark eyes, now inky with resolution. “Honestly, Roger,” she said, “I was leaving for work when you called.” She glanced at her watch. “I wanted to be early for once. I guess I have another half hour before I’ll be late again.” She put her arms around me and stood on my bare feet to kiss me on the lips. The way she kissed me was this: she put her lips on mine and gave me a series of fish-kisses without moving them away. Each time, I heard a little smacking noise.

“My little Jimmy wanted some of his Susie,” she said, in a baby-talk voice. She reached down the top of my pajama pants, took hold of my thing, and shook it with each word: “Is that what him wanted? Him wanted Susie to shake his Dinky?” I managed to laugh, somewhat insincerely because it actually hurt. I tried to back away, but she pouted her lower lip and held on tighter. “This is why you called, isn’t it? It didn’t have anything to do with a lacquered bowl.”

I swallowed hard. “I swear,” I said. “I thought…”

“You’re in a silly mood, aren’t you?” she said. “Silly like a little bitch.” She clenched her teeth and gave me her most defiant look.

“Actually,” I said, trying to salvage the moment, “I wanted to ask you to move in with me.”

“You mean live together?” Suddenly, she crossed her arms, taking her chin in one hand, two fingers and a thumb to be exact. I straightened my pajama pants while she considered the proposition.

“It makes sense, in a way. Yes, it sounds like a good idea. Would I be paying rent?”

“It’s a mortgage,” I said, straightening my pajamas. “I pay that. If you want, you could buy groceries sometime, maybe the gas or electric.”

She looked around, appraising the kitchen in which we stood. “You’re quite serious?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“I can get my brother to bring his truck this weekend, if you’ll help move a few things. Of course, I’ll need a key.”

“I’ve already had it made. It’s on the table beside the door. I put it on a fuzzy key chain. I think it’s a cat of some kind with green fur.”

She glanced at her watch. “Better run along now. I’ll call after work, six or seven, I’m not sure which. Maybe seven.”

“You can sleep here tonight if you’d like.”

“I’ll stay at my place, so I can pack some things.”

“All right. Have a good day at work.”

“Talk to you later,” she said.

“Right,” I returned. “Later.”

She disappeared into the foyer, but I heard her scoop the key off the table. The door slammed. I picked up the lacquered bowl without thinking much about it. I held it close to my eyes when I realized it really was a nice bowl. It was considerate of Mickey, my real estate agent, to send it. At that moment I became incredibly thirsty. I probably needed fluids, perhaps something to eat, so I went for the orange juice in the refrigerator, stuck the bottle to my mouth, and turned it up. I couldn’t seem to get enough, so I just kept gulping it down. There must have been something wrong with it, because instead of feeling restored, I felt queasy. I needed to lay down. I made my way back to the bedroom, one hand against the hallway wall.

When I finally got to the bed, I collapsed. I had left the window open and a slight breeze set the orange curtain to fluttering, which actually made me feel pleasantly drowsy. As I rested, my stomach returned to normal, so it seemed the queasiness wasn’t a lasting problem, but just then the curtain blew up, toward the ceiling, as a strong gust blew into the room. I thought for a moment I saw a face at the window. I sat up immediately, but the curtain had fallen over the window once more. I would have to wait for another breeze.

When it came my shock couldn’t have been greater. The face at the window was the mandrill: tiny yellow eyes, a red streak down its nose, blue lines moving away from it, like part of the face might have been plastic. The rest of the face was comprised of flaring dark hair and a yellow beard. I pulled the sheet over my head and closed my eyes, pretending to sleep until I actually did fall asleep. Later, when I woke, I stood at the window, holding back the curtain, but saw no trace of the monkey. When I dropped the curtain and backed away from the window, I realized the mandrill could be anywhere. It could be inside the condominium with me.

I glanced around, moving only my eyes. Something came through the bedroom door, as if thrown, landed on the floor and rolled toward me in a lopsided way. It was the head of Vladimir Putin, a kitchen knife through one eye. The mandrill leaned in the door, its mouth wide open, screaming with its fangs bared.

“Holy water,” I shouted. “For God’s sake, holy water!”