The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“Sheila. Sorry. I was hoping I could ask you something.” I don’t know how to phrase my question without sounding totally nuts. But then, given the kind of stuff people must say to her, she’s probably heard everything before.


“Shoot,” she says, drifting over to one of the folding chairs by the card table and settling into it with a sigh. She pulls a lighter out of her kimono sleeve—neat trick—and sparks her cigarette. She draws on it long and hard, holds her breath while looking down her nose at me, and then lets it out in a steady stream around the words “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

I suppress a cough.

“Found it,” Tyler calls from the back of the room.

“So, listen,” I start to say.

“They’re shutting me down, you know,” the medium says conversationally.

“They are?” I ask. “Why?”

“Gonna tear the building down, they said. Build condos. Just what we need in the Village. More condos full of yuppies. You should’ve seen it when I first got here, in ’75. St. Marks Place. The Bowery. This building was full of musicians back then. Couple of artists, too, made stuff out of scrap metal they found in the street. Two drag queens shared the back parlor room. Oh my God, their parties. I saw Warhol at one of them, one time.” She takes a long drag, squinting one eye at me against the smoke. “The Guaraldis and me are the only ones left. They bought everyone else out. Forget it. Over.”

She plants her cigarette between her teeth and leans back in the chair, balancing on its back legs. It looks precarious, and I’m afraid the kimono might fall open.

“They’re tearing it down? When?” I ask, thinking about Maddie, who was squatting here. And Annie. I wonder if Annie knows they’re going to tear down her house.

“How should I know? Soon. Next week? Tomorrow? All the same to me.” She stretches her arms up over her head, the kimono sleeves sliding down to her shoulders. I imagine I can see the outline of the girl she used to be, when she arrived in New York from wherever she came from. Golden hair, in a 1970s Farrah flip. Sharp, aquiline nose. She would’ve been beautiful.

I wonder if all old people really just feel like young people trapped in old bodies.

“Where will you go?” Tyler asks. He’s carrying the microphone and its wire all balled up in his hand.

“Florida! My sister’s down there. Get some sun. Warm up. Finally. These winters, I tell ya.” She somehow yawns without dropping the cigarette. Also a neat trick.

Tyler and I exchange a look, and he lifts his chin a fraction of an inch to prod me to ask my question.

“Sheila. I’m . . . I need to find someone I met here. When we were filming,” I begin.

“Oh yeah? I usually tell my clients that everything’s confidential.” She takes the cigarette between finger and thumb like Marlene Dietrich, taps the ash onto the floor, and then plants it back in her mouth and folds her arms.

“I’m not talking about a client,” I say. I move over and pull up another folding chair across from her at the card table. I lean forward on my elbows and give her my most sincere, Midwestern-nice-guy puppy-dog eyes. They’re one of the only tricks I’ve got.

She eyes me with suspicion.

“I don’t know what you heard,” she says. “But I don’t deal out of here anymore.”

Tyler stifles a laugh.

“No, no!” I say, embarrassed. “Not that, either.”

“So, what then?” She looks away, irritated.

I glance at Tyler for reassurance, and he says, “Go on. Tell her.”

I swallow hard. “What’s the deal with spirits?” I ask.

“What do you mean, what’s the deal?” she mocks my earnest-sounding non-accent in a way that makes my ears burn red.

“Like, somebody dies, right? And then what happens? Do they show up as a spirit right away?” I lean forward.

She eyes me warily. “There’s different theories. Usually, they have to wait around awhile first. ’Til someone special comes along. Someone with the sight.”

“The sight,” I repeat. “What’s that mean?”