The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“What do you mean? There weren’t. The city basically stopped at Washington Square. She told me,” I insist.

“Yeah,” he says. “But do you have any idea how many people had to live all crammed together back then? You have no idea. My dad says when he was growing up in Chinatown, there were still tenements with, like, two whole families sharing two rooms, and a bathroom in the hall. And that was in the fifties. In the nineteenth century, forget it. It was disgusting.”

“Really?” I look up with new eyes at what had been Annie’s house, trying to wrap my head around what it must have looked like then. The pizzeria and the glass door make it really hard to imagine. No matter how hard I look, I just see a run-down apartment building on the brink of being condemned.

“For real. Her folks must’ve been loaded.” Tyler sounds impressed. “Are you sure she’s really a . . . ?”

I cut him off with a sharp look.

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging his shoulders to fend off whatever it is I’m about to yell at him.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Come on.”

We make our way up the steps and ring the buzzer marked FATIMA.

A long minute passes where nothing happens. I’m starting to get worried. What if the palm reader went out of business since Tyler and I were here? It wouldn’t surprise me. I mean, seriously, how much money can those people make? The neon sign is turned off, and the cheap velvet curtains are closed.

Just then the buzzer crackles to life and an irritated woman’s voice barks, “What?”

“Um. Madame Blavatsky?” I ask, putting my mouth close to the speaker.

“Who wants to know?” the speaker crackles back to me.

“Ah. This is Wes Auckerman? I was here last week. Helping on the film?” I’m trying not to sound like I’m apologizing, but it’s not working.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Tyler says, elbowing me aside.

“What?” I say, raising my hands in self-defense.

“Madame Blavatsky,” Tyler shouts into the speaker, “we’re here from the NYU security office, and we believe you to be in illegal possession of some sound equipment. Now, we’d hate to have to involve the police, and we’re sure you’d rather keep this matter private. So if you’ll just let us up, we can settle this quickly and let you get on with your day.”

There’s a long, anxious pause while the speaker seems to consider what Tyler just said.

Then the door buzzes to let us in.

“Nice work!” I say to Tyler, impressed.

“I remembered I left a mike behind by accident. Just a cheap one. No big deal. She’s so shady, though, I was sure she didn’t try to, like, return it or anything.” Tyler grins at me.

The door on the second floor landing, the one covered over in black construction paper, is propped open on the dead bolt. We nudge it open and step inside. The room reeks of burnt candle wax and cigarette smoke. No wonder she had to use so much incense last time.

“How was I supposed to know that was your microphone?” growls a withered woman in a cheap polyester kimono. Her hair is plastic-carrot orange, and it’s hard to recognize her without her turban.

“Have you got it?” Tyler says.

I’m impressed that he’s managed to maintain an air of authority, even when it’s obvious that we’re not with NYU security. We’re two nineteen-year-old guys in summer school, and one of us is wearing cargo shorts.

“Oh yeah,” she says, waving an unlit cigarette at us. “It’s over there somewhere. Help yourself.”

Tyler gives me a now-ask-her-whatever-it-is-we-came-here-for look, and moves off to the corner she vaguely indicated to hunt down his forgotten equipment.

“Um. Madame Blavatsky?” I start. My hands are shoved deep in my pockets, because I never know what to do with them when I’m nervous, and being here most definitely makes me nervous.

“Sheila,” she corrects me. “Sheila MacDougall.”