“I’m on my way home,” he said by way of greeting.
“Good. You need to get here soon,” Liza said.
“What’s wrong? You sound stressed out.”
“I am stressed out. We have company.”
He and Liza rarely entertained at home, preferring the solitude of the brownstone after the labors of performing the show each night. He didn’t like the sound of this, and sat up in his seat. “And who might that be?”
“Dr. Sierra and his friend Hunsinger are here.”
“You can’t be serious. What are they doing there in my home?”
“You’re losing your temper. Please calm down.”
“What did you expect me to do? Break out in song?”
“Peter, control yourself.”
“I’m sorry. Now tell me, what are they doing there?”
“I forgot to cancel our session this morning. Dr. Sierra had asked Hunsinger to come to his office and meet with us. When we didn’t show, they decided to come here. I stupidly gave Dr. Sierra’s receptionist our address when I booked our session.”
“Why didn’t you just slam the door in his face?”
“I couldn’t. Dr. Sierra begged me to let him in. He made it sound like life and death.”
Peter’s blood started to boil like so much bad poison. His brownstone was his sanctuary where he went to escape from the world. Sierra and Hunsinger had no right to be there. In the mirror he caught Herbie giving him an eyeful. He twirled a finger, and the limo accelerated.
“Where are they now?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Sitting at the kitchen table. I made them a pot of coffee.”
“That was nice of you. Maybe they’d like some pancakes.”
“Please don’t be angry. I went with my heart, and my heart said let them in.”
“Why not tell them to go to a restaurant? I would have met them there. Why let them in?”
“Hunsinger is very frail and he can hardly breathe. I think he may be dying.”
“So?”
“Peter, this isn’t like you. These men want to speak with you, that’s all. Why are you so afraid of talking to them? What harm can it cause?”
Since he was a kid, he’d lived in other people’s homes, a year in one apartment, the next year in another apartment. He never had his own room or furniture that was his. He’d longed for those things, and for a special place to call home. The brownstone was that place, and he didn’t want men like Sierra or his friend to step foot inside.
Liza broke the silence. “Do you want me to throw them out?”
“No, let me,” he said.
Sometimes, mind reading was easy. Herbie knew exactly what was on his employer’s mind as he pulled to the curb in front of the brownstone. Throwing the limo into Park, he hopped out and stood on the sidewalk with his arms outstretched. As Peter climbed out, Herbie grabbed him in a bear hug. Herbie was a big man, and made Peter his prisoner.
“Boss, calm down. You act like you’re gonna hurt someone,” his driver said.
“I just might.”
“Ain’t worth it. Trust me, I know.”
As a teen, Herbie had run with a gang and had shot a man. He had done hard time in a maximum security prison called Sing Sing, and had come out a changed man. He spoke from experience, and Peter took a deep breath, and forced himself to calm down. His driver smiled sheepishly and released him.
“Feel better?” Herbie asked.
“Come to mention it, yes. You’re a great hugger.”
“Thanks, boss. Not mad at me, are you?”
“No. Thanks for doing that.”
Peter headed up the front steps. He had a temper, no doubt about it, and he was fortunate to have people like Herbie there to stop him when his emotions got the best of him. The door opened and Liza came out wearing drab workout clothes.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’m managing.”
She led him down the hallway to the kitchen, where his two unwanted guests sat at the table sipping java. Both looked up as if startled out of a daydream. Sierra was the first to rise and seemed apprehensive and more than a little nervous about being here.
“I’m sorry to come barging into your home like this,” Sierra said.
“It must be important,” Peter heard himself say.
“It is. Please let me introduce my friend. This is Richard Hunsinger.”
The second man slowly came out of his chair. He was little more than skin and bones, and wore a black shirt buttoned to his neck, and black slacks that hung loosely around his waist. His hair was flecked with spots of white that looked like snowflakes, his eyes sallow and pale.
“Hello,” Peter said stiffly.
“Hello, Peter,” his guest replied. “Do you remember me?”
“No. Should I?”
“We met long ago. You and your parents came to see me. Think hard.”
“Is this a quiz?”
“It will be easier this way. Please,” Hunsinger said.
“How long ago was this?”
“You had just celebrated your seventh birthday.”
Peter tried to imagine a younger version of Hunsinger. After a few moments, it dawned on him who this person was. Hunsinger was the bogeyman he’d been seeing in his dreams since he was a kid, the strange man in black who’d made him cry.
In his dream, Peter was in a study with a scary painting of Jesus Christ hanging on the cross. Jesus’s face was filled with so much pain that he’d avoided staring at it. Beneath the painting sat a man wearing black clothing and the gravest of expressions. The man motioned for Peter to step forward, only Peter wouldn’t budge. The man gently took Peter by the hand, and pulled the boy toward him. Peter had started to cry. His parents were standing nearby, and he looked to them for help. His mother was crying as well. But she would not help him.
A strange dream, for sure. But now the young magician knew otherwise. It had actually happened. Hunsinger was real, and had known his parents. For that reason alone, Peter needed to hear what the man had to say. Maybe then the dream would go away, and be replaced by some other unexplained mystery from his youth.
“I remember you now,” Peter said. “My parents brought me to see you, although to be honest, I have no earthly idea why. Did I do something wrong?”
Hunsinger picked up his coffee cup as if to take a drink. Instead, he stared into its depths as if it held the secret to the universe. He had the kind of honest face that Peter associated with people with a clean conscience. He’d not met many people he could say that about.
Hunsinger looked up. “Do you remember anything that happened?”
“All I have left are dreams.”
“I hope your dreams are not painful.”
“Actually, they are. You made me cry.”
“It was a difficult time. Dr. Sierra met with your parents on several occasions, and he referred them to me. Your parents brought you to me, and I examined you and gave them my opinion.” His voice had gone weak, and he paused to catch his breath. “Dr. Sierra and I always wondered what became of you. When Dr. Sierra called to tell me that he’d found you, I asked him to arrange a meeting. I hope you don’t mind.”
“At first I did mind, but now I’m glad you came,” Peter said. “Now, would you please tell me who you are, and what this is about? The suspense is killing me.”
“Of course. You see, I’m a priest.”
34
Peter could not have been more confused. His mother and father weren’t Catholic. Why on earth had they taken him to see a priest? “Why did my parents come to see you? Were they thinking of converting to Catholicism?”
Hunsinger stole a glance at Sierra. Where to begin? his facial expression seemed to say. After a moment his eyes returned to Peter’s face. “If you don’t mind, I need to sit down. My body is frail, and I am unable to stand for long periods of time.”
The priest lowered himself into his chair. He was sickly and moved in slow motion. The fact that he’d ventured out in such poor health to meet Peter was not lost on the young magician.