There Comes a Reckoning

Bi·lo·ca·tion: Spelled [bahy-loh-key-shuhn]–noun, The state of being or the ability to be in two places at the same time.

Dop·pel·gäng·er: Spelled [dop-uhl-gang-er; Ger. daw-puhl-geng-er]–noun, a ghostly double or counterpart of a living person. Origin: 1850–55; <>

Richard wandered the modern London streets trying to remember how to get to his East End Studio. He had a morbid curiosity to revisit his last place of residence before he fled with Victoria from Whitechapel and the Metropolitan police to the reasonably safe shores of America. As he walked at a clip he could not help but let his eyes drink in the marvels of motor vehicles, the lights that flashed seemingly everywhere and the intense cacophony of modern existence. London was a noisy place when he lived there more than a century before, but now the shrill sounds of contemporary life were deafening. They were the same sounds that seeped into his vivid dreams as he visited the New York Public Library in his delirious state. Large screens displayed moving pictures for the masses to see. It was hypnotic and not unlike the first kinetiscope he witnessed at an exhibition in the Cooper Union building. A gigantic Farris wheel rose up from the shores of the Thames like an iron cloud or all seeing eye. As he walked he could still feel Michelangelo undulating underneath him. It was a strange experience and he wondered if he looked like a drunk ambling through the neighborhood. He stopped and steadied himself against a light pole. It vibrated with power and sizzled with electricity. He looked up the thin aluminum monolith and found yet another eye gazing down at him. The gas lamps had been replaced with state-of-the-art almost science fiction looking halogen bulbs. He closed his eyes and breathed deep letting the air rest in his belly for a moment.

He was physically riding Michelangelo with Victoria wrapped in his arms. He could feel the winter air as it stung his nostrils but the bison hide kept them warm. Clip, clop, clip, clop, her hooves went creating a hypnotic rhythm that put Victoria and Richard into an extremely relaxed state. He opened his eyes for a moment and noticed the saffron colored scarf Victoria wore about her neck and shoulders. As his hands pulled her ever closer to him she stirred in the silence of the snow-covered landscape. The scarf radiated heat. He let his fingers move to the parts that made no contact and still the silk was infused with the warmth of summer, the warmth of a human body, the heat of the sun.

“Where did you get this?” He whispered in her ear.

“The old Indian.” She replied sleepily.

Suddenly it was amazingly clear to him. ANSA.

“The Statue…in the corridor. When it toppled I found the scarf in its base.” She added. “I think it is absolutely beautiful, don’t you?” She said half asking and half stating a fact.

“It suits you.” He said softly while his mind began to run through the potent images of his dreams. She settled further into his chest and closed her eyes. He thought that they could just as well be reclining in their parlor before a large fire. The cold and the wind did not affect them whatsoever. He looked down at Mr. Watkins as he struggled with the snow and ice-covered road leading Michelangelo to much needed shelter. Poor Mrs. Hopkins leaned into the wind to avoid being blown away altogether. She had wrapped herself in her wool outerwear so thoroughly that only her black eyes caught the sparkle of snow beneath the scarf and shadows of winter. They shivered and quaked as they made their plodding tracks and Richard realized that was exactly how he had felt on his journey in the blizzard only a few days before to find Victoria. He wondered what had happened that he did not experience what Henry and Miriam were experiencing now---in this challenging moment. Was it a state of mind or a state of grace? He looked down at the bright orange cloth and spied a small thread that had become disengaged. He pulled at it slightly until the minute string was completely in his hand. He stuffed it in his pocket and then took in another deep breath letting it rest in the pit of his belly.

As he opened his eyes again the loud sounds of London town crashed in on him. He felt dizzy and disoriented. His stomach tossed and he felt queasy. He held onto the light pole and breathed deeply once again and counted slowly in his mind reaffirming that he was on firm ground. He took his hand out of his pocket and the small thread of orange fell to the ground. In another place and time he would have dismissed the tiny fiber and walked on but that little orange string was his anchor somehow. As he bent down to reach for it he could feel his weight increase. The light of midday dimmed and a fog of brown and gray seemed to overwhelm him. Down around his knees he could see people standing on yet another plane reaching for him. They cried and whimpered and moaned. Others screamed familiar obscenities and threats in his Victorian lingo. Still other flitted in their dark morning coats and deerstalker hats for cover in the ever-darkening shadows. He felt as though he was momentarily existing in one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings of hell. Richard’s chest hurt and he felt as if he were full of lead. As he tried to straighten himself and stand erect he could feel the weight of a hundred or more people pulling at him to stay down. Ne’er-do-wells and malcontents he had seen when he lived in that neighborhood. Some were common thieves and gamblers, others were grifters and murderers and still others existed on a steady flow of evil. Were they specters? Were they just remnants of negative energy? Or were they, too, traveling he wondered.

A dark complected man with a full beard passed by and leered at Richard over his shoulder. He was dressed in the modern clothes of the twenty-first century and appeared Egyptian to Richard’s eye. Then another kindly man in a turban passed by.

“You all right, mate?” The Sikh asked in his working class English.

“I’m feeling a little sick.” Richard replied as he reached for the orange thread without success.

“Ah. Have you come from the absinthe bar?” The Indian chuckled.

Richard looked over and across the street was ‘Ye Olde Cock Tavern’, a place he had spent many drunken evenings in his youth. As his eyes studied the place from the height of his knees, the façade was grimy and dirty the way he last remembered it. Drunkards and sailors stepped in and out with just as many whores hocking their wares. Rats, horse droppings, vomit and general refuse littered the area. He could feel the Indian man helping him to stand upright and as he rose, the façade of the pub morphed into its present condition, a respectable public house with college students and businessmen stepping in and out. There was no garbage, no human waste, only diffused light from the cloud cover overhead.

“I, I dropped something.” Richard said breathlessly and pointed to the jumbled string on the ground. The Indian man picked it up and placed it in Richard’s hand. As he held it he could smell Victoria beside him and his heart grew buoyant and full.

“You are traveling far.” The Sikh said knowingly. Richard nodded out of habit

“Come. I shall take you to a little place where you can find nourishment.” The Indian said as he took Richard’s arm. They walked about the London streets and everywhere Richard gazed the ghettos and poverty of his memory had been erased. People walked about in American dungarees and undershirts with advertisements or words printed across them. Strange shoes and no head cover. Jackets made of the union jack and dark glasses. The buildings were new glass and steel facades. Gone were the dilapidated row houses and condemned brothels where thirty to fifty people might take shelter in a night.

“This place is a vegetarian restaurant---the best in the whole city!” The Sikh exclaimed. They moved toward an old storefront that had no sign.

“It is Mumbai cuisine. You will love it, my friend!” He added. The patrons were crowded around the simple wooden counter.

“You! What you like?” An old woman in an orange sari yelled.

“She’s talking to you, mate.” The Sikh said and gave a Richard a little nudge. As the woman came toward him parting the long line of customers in her wake he realized he had seen her before.

“What you like? What you order?” She said in her broken English. She was extremely old and her hair stark white. Richard unfurled his fingers and noticed the thread from Victoria’s scarf was the exact same color as the old woman’s sari.

“Something to settle the stomach.” He said weakly.

“You travel long way.” She said and her face was stony. She took his hand authoritatively and began to lead him down a long corridor. Odd Eastern style music played electronically through boxes mounted on the walls. Patrons crammed against the edges all sipped Thai tea or dug furiously into their take-out boxes with chopsticks.

The hallway opened up into a small dining area filled with Asian customers.

“Sit.” The woman said. Then she pulled a chair up to his table and sat down with him.

“You having baby.” She said and her stoic visage melted into a cheerful smile.

“Yes. Yes, my wife is expecting.” Richard replied.

“You in here the other day.” She said.

“No.” Richard countered.

“Oh, yes, you were. Only it look like Green-wood.” She said softly and her eyes were piercing and deep. As the words sunk into Richard, an awareness bloomed as epiphany through him.

“Ansa,” He said making the connection on more planes than one.

“The Sleeper Wakes.” She said laughing and she plucked the orange thread from his palm. He could feel a wave of panic rush over him for a moment. She untangled the thread and pinched one end. She motioned for him to pinch the other end. It was about eleven inches long. She pulled it taut like a tightrope.

“This the way.” She said enigmatically. Then she pointed to the sky above. “You awake now.” She chuckled.

“Am I awake here? In London?” He said nervously. “I was in New York…In America.”

“You in both places. Just like me.” She said and her eyes glinted with mischief. “I make you soup. Like I did before. It good for you.” She added and she clapped her hands and a bevy of cooks and kitchen help all moved in tandem to create the potion.

“I called to you.” Richard said softy.

“Yes.” Ansa replied.

“You appeared in a bison hide. You were American Indian.” He continued.

“Yes.” She nodded and smiled.

“But…now I see you and you are Hindu.” Richard observed.

“I am half Tibetan and half Lakota Sioux.” Ansa clarified.

“Ah. I see.” Richard said not really knowing what either culture was. Ansa studied him for a moment and her eyes seemed to puncture him to his core.

“When you call out to me from the snowy house.” She began.
“Yes?” Richard said with anticipation.

“I let that life die…for her. For you.” Ansa explained enigmatically.

“What are you saying?” Richard asked a bit uneasy.

“She…your wife….buried alive…in that house…under snow. She die.” Ansa said softly.

“No, no, no, no---She’s alive. She’s with me now. If I close my eyes and breathe deep she is riding with me. We’re on our way home.” Richard began to explain.

Ansa nodded in agreement to everything.

“But…you call me. I sacrifice that life so you can have Victoria. She alive. I give her my qi.” She said. “She alive with you now.”

“But that means you would be dead.” He said.

“In that life. I alive here.” Ansa tried to explain. “I am you.”

Richard was completely baffled. The old woman smiled knowingly. “You Ansa, only later.” She said and then she laughed. The aroma wafting from the kitchen was delicious. It was infused with coconut and spices.

“You come tomorrow and I show you who you are today.” She said.

“What?” Richard asked incredulous.

“I show you. You having baby.” She giggled. The woman from the kitchen moved around the counter and brought the plastic take-out bowl filled with soup.

“It make you feel so much better.” Ansa said.

As Richard pulled the container from its white paper bag the room lit up from the light emanating from the elixir.

“Am I to eat this?” Richard asked stunned. Ansa nodded. He took a plastic soupspoon, studied it and then dipped it into the concoction. He took a small sip and immediately felt better. He continued to sip at the soup while trying hard to understand the riddle Ansa had presented to him.

“If you gave your life so that Victoria could be with me. Then how am I you and you me? How are you here?” He asked.

“Because your love for her is all encompassing, you have unknowingly released me from samsara. I have reached enlightenment. I am everywhere. I am one. I am all.” She explained. “I am you.”

Obscure Reflections of the Interior

She was rushing against time and the clock was ticking fast revealing that it was already four thirty. Usually the parks department personnel quit at five sharp. She had covered the whiskey laced S’mores with tin foil and proceeded to the footbridge that arched across the Prospect Expressway and opened up near the Kensington horse stables on Caton Place. It had been an early spring and the trees were full and green. The cherry blossoms had already burst with their fluffy pink blossoms and spread a carpet of velvety rose on the ground. Ashley moved cautiously down the empty street once again. On a beautiful warm spring day she thought it odd that no one was out making their way to the park or just enjoying the sunshine. She continued down Caton Avenue along the Parade grounds. It began to grow populated again with kids playing soccer and peewee baseball. She moved along to the corner of Marlborough Street where a pretzel wagon was positioned to sell salty dough to game attendees along with endless supplies of bottled water. As she peered down the alleyway to the stunning columned house she saw a parks department person crossing the yard.

“Excuse me?” Ashley queried. The man stopped. “Is the house still open?” He looked at her strangely and replied in Spanish shaking his head.

“Gracias.” She said in her drawl even though she did not understand a word he uttered. He moved quickly out of sight to a green pick-up and drove away. She mounted the front porch and knocked on the great door. There was no answer. She tried the brass knob and it was locked. Ashley was determined to get inside and so she walked around to the side of the house just like the nosey neighbors in North Carolina might do. She spied the woodpile that looked as though it had been picked through by vagabonds. Then she rounded the corner to the back of the house where she found muddy tracks leading from the backdoor. It was a path well worn. She knocked and waited and to her delight she saw the woman dressed in the same dark wool Victorian outfit. She wore a look of concern as she slowly opened the door.

“Heeey.” Ashley said. “I brought you some cookies---I—I made ‘em myself. I hope you don’t think it forward of me.”

The woman smiled a little and was truly taken by Ashley’s generosity. She waved her inside. As Ashley entered she took in the old kitchen with its cast iron stove, spice racks and huge pantry.

“I didn’t catch your name the last time I was here.” Ashley said as the woman surveyed the sweets.

“Victoria.” The woman replied as they sat down in the parlor. There was a small fire in the fireplace that Ashley thought was very strange. She did not see smoke issuing from the chimney when she walked up and it was May and the weather was warmish with no need to build a fire.

“It is a true rarity to find a working fireplace in New York City these days.” Ashley offered and she realized that the room was a bit warm and the s’mores might very well melt.

“The house has been very cold of late.” Victoria said enigmatically. It made sense somehow. It was an old Victorian structure and dense. It probably held the chill left over from winter. Sometimes the brownstone where Ashley lived would be cold inside when the outside air was warm.

“Soooo…How are you doing?” Ashley asked cheerfully. Victoria demurely bit into a corner of the s’more and her face lit up.

“These are delectable.” She purred.

“Oh, that makes me so happy. You know I make ‘em with a secret ingredient.” And she winked which had become her signature habit. Victoria reacted to the wink with a coy questioning smile.

“It’s my Grama’s recipe from Cherokee County. I wanted to cheer you up since you seemed so…I don’t know...forlorn, I guess is the word.” Victoria looked down and remained silent for a moment. “I don’t mean to be a busybody---it’s just that I was concerned for you.” Ashley added and she reached out to touch Victoria’s arm. A tingling rush coursed through her as she made contact and Ashley felt strangely comfortable, even sensual in the platonic sense.

“I am so grateful for your company and your lovely gift.” Victoria said and she shifted in her chair for a moment. She was so earnest it was heart-warming. And Ashley felt as if she was engaged in something exquisitely intense and numinous.

“Oh my goodness. Are you expecting?” Ashley exclaimed. Then she blushed at being forward once again but for some reason she couldn’t help herself. Victoria’s hands moved to the slight baby bump in her thick wool dress and a heartfelt smile bloomed across her face.

“Aren’t you hot in that costume?” Ashley asked. Victoria shook her head ‘no’ and then reached for Ashley’s hand. Once again a zing of an almost electric nature shot through her body and Ashley felt as if she were on a ship riding the waves of a vast ocean. Her heart grew warm and she held fast as Victoria led her up to the second floor landing where the statue of Tammany stood. The visage of the old Indian took Ashley’s breath away. She walked up to it and touched the finely hewn wood. It was dried out from years of radiator heat and fireplace soot. His regal face reminded her of all her ancestors birthed for generations in the great Smokey Mountains.

“Amazing.” Ashley murmured and she felt the intense desire to own the statue somehow. “Who is it?” She asked.

“Tammany.” Victoria replied. “My husband found him.”

“This should be in a museum---It should be at the American Indian Museum in the old custom house downtown.” Ashley sputtered. “Does your husband work for the parks?”

Victoria shook her head ‘no’.

“He’s ill.” She replied almost whispering and the forlorn look washed across her face again.

“I’m so sorry.” Ashley said and the thought of cancer or some other debilitating condition like ALS or Parkinson’s flashed across her mind. She stepped close to Victoria. “Will he recover?”

“I don’t know.” Victoria said and she turned to make her way back downstairs. Then she stopped suddenly on the staircase and gazed up at Ashley. Her piercing eyes seemed to cut straight through to Ashley’s soul and a small epiphany seemed to move across Victoria’s face like a subtle shadow or a change in the color of light. There was an ineffable knowing.

“If he does not…Then the Indian is yours.” And she turned and quickly made her way back into the kitchen. Ashley followed and watched as Victoria put the box of s’mores safely away in the large pantry.

“The Indian is mine?” She echoed astounded. Victoria nodded again in agreement and Ashley was unsure how to feel about it all.

“Well. It’s five. I guess you have to close up now.” Ashley said awkwardly and she moved through the kitchen and towards the back door. Victoria turned and stepped quickly towards the exit. “You’ll come back?” She asked concerned.

“Sure.” Ashley purred. “I’ll come back.”

“I only have Michelangelo to keep me company at the moment.” Victoria added and then she bent down to collect an old wooden bucket. Who was Michelangelo? Ashley thought and then she assumed maybe she had a coffee table book of the great Buonarroti’s paintings to keep her occupied.

“I’ll drop by again sometime.” Ashley added and by this time she was in the yard. She passed the old green truck and a different grounds man jumped out and approached her.

“Excuse me.” He said. Ashley stopped. “What were you doing in that house?”

“I was talking to the museum lady, Victoria.” She said and she started walking.

“This is condemned property. You can’t just wander around in there.” He explained. “And if there are any squatters there that you’re feeding they will be run out.”

“What?” Ashley said stunned.

“Structurally unsound. Didn’t you see the tape? And the fence? And the rats? Don’t let me catch you going in there again.” He said with a reprimanding tone.

“What are you going to do? Arrest me?” She said defiantly. “Get over yourself.” And she walked away leaving the guy hang-jawed. It couldn’t possibly be condemned, she thought. Surely the guy was trying to mess with her. She would find out from Victoria herself what the truth was. For now she had to hustle back home and change for dinner.

“I shall fetch the undertaker, Mr. Watkins.” Miriam said and Henry seemed concerned. “Don’t look so worried. The snow has stopped and poor Nell has been stuck in the cellar for nigh on two days. I must do my best to maintain some sort of propriety concerning her funeral.” She continued as she wrapped herself up in her wool cape and thick black hat.

“If you insist.” He murmured. “I do wish you would take one of the Irishmen with you.”

“Nonsense.” She replied. “Mr. Riedleman is only three streets away and I will feel better knowing that preparations are underway.”

“As you see fit.” Henry replied. And she moved out into the frosty cold. It bit her cheeks and nose and she could see her breath. It was so cold she thought her breath might freeze in mid-air. The Irishmen had shoveled a narrow path out to Grove Street and down to the corner. However, the snow was six feet deep and she moved through white canyons that at times turned into crevasses. Because everything was white and she could not see above the snowline her perspective and navigation became incredibly difficult. The unlucky few who ventured out on this day found that the snow paths only allowed for the breadth of one person. Squeezing by another passing in the opposite direction became a challenge. Miriam had planned to see the undertaker and then from there inquire as to the condition of the trains running to Brooklyn. Her desire to find Victoria grew with each step and yet with each block she became increasingly aware of the danger and risk involved in such an attempt. Perhaps it was folly. She moved to Christopher Street and towards the river. She could feel the biting wind coming off the water but she could not see it. As she neared the brownstone she realized the signs were buried and the first floor of the houses were under snow. It had been some time since she had visited Mr. Riedelman and so her memory of the outside of his business escaped her. It seemed her adventure would be fruitless. Suddenly a man in black attempted to emerge from his building. With great difficulty he began digging and looked like a badger as he flung snow high up into the air. Mrs. Hopkins approached the gentleman as he rested between furious bouts of shoveling.

“Mr. Riedelman?” She said loud and clear.

“Yes?” The man answered.

“It’s Mrs. Hopkins from the Thornton house. May I be of some assistance?” She said.

“Give me a moment and I vill be free of dees white chains.” He said and his accent was definitely German. Mrs. Hopkins waited patiently until she could see the undertakers face in the shadow of his own doorway. He crawled out into the pathway like a crab skittering towards freedom. “Vell now dat is betta.” He added as he brushed the snow from his wool suit and overcoat. He tamed his wiry gray hair and stuffed it under his top hat that was encircled with a black sash that flowed down the back, a sign of constant mourning.

“Vot can I do for you?” He said sweetly.

“One of our servants unfortunately succumbed to the storm.” Mrs. Hopkins began.

“Let us valk now.” Mr. Riedelman said and he offered his arm as support. However she actually had to walk behind him thru the narrow frosted corridors.

“Nell, our newest girl died two days ago. She’s in the cellar.” She continued.

“Irish I am supposing.” He said softly.

“Yes.” Miriam answered.

“Ve’ll need a priest. I shall arrange it. Take me to her please.” He requested and they walked the three streets back to the Grove Street house.

Richard followed Chelsea as she made her way downtown. He found walking through the city fascinating. People talking into small black box type things and not interacting at all with one another. Everyone seemed to be floating in their own little bubble. Private conversations were being made public on every street and corner and then he studied people who seemed to be mashing buttons on these small devices as they walked heads down and oblivious to the natural world. It seemed a shame that on such a beautiful day people were being distracted with these boxes. Gazing down and not up---up to the sky---up to the person before you---up to the forces of inspiration. These odd contraptions sucked in a large portion of their souls. The majority were husks floating in the wind, their lights half dimmed by not being present. He watched his wife as she did the same. It was bizarre behavior having a series of different conversations with an object placed at her ear. And when he noticed her heart light it was not running at its full intensity. She had become removed in a way. As he strolled down Sixth Avenue several paces behind his wife he was well aware that people were stopping and staring at him even as they talked on their devices. After a while he decided to indulge a few and tip his top hat as he walked by and bid the surprised individual a good day. It was fun. It reminded him of his days when he used to be an actor in the East End streets. Then when one man screamed, “Fucking Freak!” Richard had to contain himself and let it roll off. He could certainly have engaged in a fight, but he did not want to lose sight of her so he kept on going. Chelsea stopped in front of a store and continued talking on her cell phone. Richard stepped around and thought perhaps she might finally recognize him. But she kept her head down through most of the conversation. When she did look up she seemed to look right past him. So he decided to into the store. It was an upscale pet boutique and the salesman was a bit unnerved by Richard’s appearance.

“Yes, sir, How can I help you?” The salesman said.

“I’m simply browsing.” Richard replied and he gazed out through the plate glass window.

“Are you looking for anything in particular? Dog accoutrements? Or perhaps you have a cat?” The salesman continued.

“Would you mind too much if I asked you to get my wife’s attention. She’s just outside talking on that ‘thing’.” Richard requested.

“Certainly.” The salesman said smiling and he walked over to the window and tapped gently. After a moment Chelsea turned and she dropped her cell phone.

“Well done sir!” Richard said and he stepped into full view in the window.

Chelsea retrieved her phone quickly, “Hello? Hello?” She said but the call had been disconnected. She stood there for what seemed a few minutes staring at Richard who smiled kindly at her through the glass. She wasn’t sure how to feel. He had to be a ghost or something, but her heart swelled and she felt as though she were being reunited with a love from long ago. She wanted to cry but no tears came forth. She was concerned that maybe her imagination had over run her normally grounded mind.

“God, I hope I’m not going crazy.” She murmured to herself and Richard immediately shook his head ‘no’ from inside the store. Then as she gathered her wits she moved into the store to see him clearly.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you?” The salesman asked cheerfully.

“Um. In a minute.” Chelsea replied distracted and fixated on Richard.

“I told you I’d get better.” Richard said enigmatically. And as he reached out to take her hand Chelsea was seized by a tide of emotions and her body felt as if it vibrated and hummed. She was ecstatically joyful as if her most fervent private wish had been fulfilled and yet she was not aware of what that wish had been.

“Cat or dog, Miss?” The salesman said growing a little more assertive. Chelsea turned and replied, “Neither.”

“Then I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” The salesman answered and turned on his heel with an attitude. Just then Chelsea realized she was alone in the pet store her hand outstretched as if in an imaginary grasp. The electric hum she had experienced had faded and she looked around as other customers tried not to stare.

“Did you just see a man in here in a frock coat and top hat?” Chelsea asked a middle-aged woman. The woman shook her head ‘no’ and quickly shuffled by. Then an older gentleman stepped up.

“Yes. I saw a gentleman in Victorian garb in here. He’s obviously part of some small theatre troupe doing Dickens or Shaw somewhere. Odd to do Dickens in the Spring, though.” He added.

“Thank you.” Chelsea said and she walked outside to see where Richard had gone.

“You’re not supposed to do that! It’s unnatural.” Nell chided as she walked up alongside Richard.

“I don’t like your tone.” Richard said gruffly.

“It is against the laws of nature.” She repeated vehemently. “You’re not supposed to be here! Victoria is waiting for you in Brooklyn. You need to go home!” She said angrily.

“Nell. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak like this before. What is the matter, lass?” He said and his demeanor changed to that of a loving father figure.

“I’m cold. And I just want to go to sleep. And company is coming.” She said and she began to grow upset.

“There, there, now. I’ll make sure you get home.” Richard cooed. And they began walking in the direction of Grove Street.