J. R. Hanslet was Jan Shrelt. Or J. H. Snartle.
Now that really made sense.
Poor Hutch.
She took up the board and tilted it, spilling the letters back into the box.
The book, which lay open on the window seat beyond the box, had turned its pages to the picture of Adrian Marcato and his wife and son. Perhaps Hutch had pressed hard there, holding it open while he underlined “Steven.”
The baby lay quiet in her, not moving.
She put the board on her knees again and took from the box the letters of Steven Marcato. When the name lay spelled before her, she looked at it for a moment and then began transposing the letters. With no false moves and no wasted motion she made them into Roman Castevet.
And then again into Steven Marcato.
And then again into Roman Castevet.
The baby stirred ever so slightly.
She read the chapter on Adrian Marcato and the one called Witch Practices, and then she went into the kitchen and ate some tuna salad and lettuce and tomatoes, thinking about what she had read.
She was just beginning the chapter called Witchcraft and Satanism when the front door unlocked and was pushed against the chain. The doorbell rang as she went to see who it was. It was Guy.
“What’s with the chain?” he asked when she had let him in.
She said nothing, closing the door and rechaining it.
“What’s the matter?” He had a bunch of daisies and a box from Bronzini. “I’ll tell you inside,” she said as he gave her the daisies and a kiss.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. She went into the kitchen.
“How was the memorial?”
“Very nice. Very short.”
“I got the shirt that was in The New Yorker, “ he said, going to the bedroom. “Hey,” he called, “On A Clear Day and Skyscraper are both closing.”
She put the daisies in a blue pitcher and brought them into the living room. Guy came in and showed her the shirt. She admired it.
Then she said, “Do you know who Roman really is?”
Guy looked at her, blinked, and frowned. “What do you mean, honey?” he said. “He’s Roman.”
“He’s Adrian Marcato’s son,” she said. “The man who said he conjured up Satan and was attacked downstairs by a mob. Roman is his son Steven. ‘Roman Castevet’ is ‘Steven Marcato’ rearranged-an anagram.”
Guy said, “Who told you?”
“Hutch,” Rosemary said. She told Guy about All Of Them Witches and Hutch’s message. She showed him the book, and he put aside his shirt and took it and looked at it, looked at the title page and the table of contents and then sprung the pages out slowly from under his thumb, looking at all of them.
“There he is when he was thirteen,” Rosemary said. “See the eyes?”
“It might just possibly be a coincidence,” Guy said.
“And another coincidence that he’s living here? In the same house Steven Marcato was brought up in?” Rosemary shook her head. “The ages match too,” she said. “Steven Marcato was born in August, 1886, which would make him seventy-nine now. Which is what Roman is. It’s no coincidence.”
“No, I guess it’s not,” Guy said, springing out more pages. “I guess he’s Steven Marcato, all right. The poor old geezer. No wonder he switched his name around, with a crazy father like that.”
Rosemary looked at Guy uncertainly and said, “You don’t think he’s-the same as his father?”
“What do you mean?” Guy said, and smiled at her. “A witch? A devil worshiper?”
She nodded.
“Ro,” he said. “Are you kidding? Do you really-“ He laughed and gave the book back to her. “Ah, Ro, honey,” he said.
“It’s a religion,” she said. “It’s an early religion that got-pushed into the corner.”
“All right,” he said, “but today?”
“His father was a martyr to it,” she said. “That’s how it must look to him. Do you know where Adrian Marcato died? In a stable. On Corfu. Wherever that is. Because they wouldn’t let him into the hotel. Really. ‘No room at the inn.’ So he died in the stable. And he was with him. Roman. Do you think he’s given it up after that?”
“Honey, it’s 1966,” Guy said.
“This book was published in 1933,” Rosemary said; “there were covens in Europe-that’s what they’re called, the groups, the congregations; covensin Europe, in North and South America, in Australia; do you think they’ve all died out in just thirty-three years? They’ve got a coven here, Minnie and Roman, with Laura-Louise and the Fountains and the Gilmores and the Weeses; those parties with the flute and the chanting, those are Sabbaths or esbats or whatever-they-are!”
“Honey,” Guy said, “don’t get excited. Let’s-“
“Read what they do, Guy,” she said, holding the book open at him and jabbing a page with her forefinger. “They use blood in their rituals, because blood has power, and the blood that has the most power is a baby’s blood, a baby that hasn’t been baptized; and they use more than the blood, they use the flesh too!”
“For God’s sake, Rosemary!”
“Why have they been so friendly to us?” she demanded.
“Because they’re friendly people! What do you think they are, maniacs?”
“Yes! Yes. Maniacs who think they have magic power, who think they’re real storybook witches, who perform all sorts of crazy rituals and practices because they’re-sick and crazy maniacs!”
“Honey-“
“Those black candles Minnie brought us were from the black mass! That’s how Hutch caught on. And their living room is clear in the middle so that they have room. “
“Honey,” Guy said, “they’re old people and they have a bunch of old friends, and Dr. Shand happens to play the recorder. You can get black candles right down in the hardware store, and red ones and green ones and blue ones.
And their living room is clear because Minnie is a lousy decorator. Roman’s father was a nut, okay; but that’s no reason to think that Roman is too.”
“They’re not setting foot in this apartment ever again,” Rosemary said. “Either one of them. Or Laura-Louise or any of the others. And they’re not coming within fifty feet of the baby.”
“The fact that Roman changed his name proves that he’s not like his father,” Guy said. “If he were he’d be proud of the name and would have kept it.”
“He did keep it,” Rosemary said. “He switched it around, but he didn’t really change it for something else. And this way he can get into hotels.” She went away from Guy, to the window where the Scrabble set lay. “I won’t let them in again,” she said. “And as soon as the baby is old enough I want to sub-let and move. I don’t want them near us. Hutch was right; we never should have moved in here.” She looked out the window, holding the book clamped in both hands, trembling.
Guy watched her for a moment. “What about Dr. Sapirstein?” he said. “Is he in the coven too?”
She turned and looked at him.
“After all,” he said, “there’ve been maniac doctors, haven’t there? His big ambition is probably to make house calls on a broomstick.”
She turned to the window again, her face sober. “No, I don’t think he’s one of them,” she said. “He’s-too intelligent.”
“And besides, he’s Jewish,” Guy said and laughed. “Well, I’m glad you’ve exempted somebody from your McCarthy-type smear campaign. Talk about witch-hunting, wow! And guilt by association.”
“I’m not saying they’re really witches,” Rosemary said. “I know they haven’t got real power. But there are people who do believe, even if we don’t; just the way my family believes that God hears their prayers and that the wafer is the actual body of Jesus. Minnie and Roman believe their religion, believe it and practice it, I know they do; and I’m not going to take any chances with the baby’s safety.”
