Calling Card

1

"You know what, nephew?" shouted my Uncle Michael. "I'm not thrilled with you right now. You violated my direct order. Bongiovanni should get this first. But no. You bring it here. Why?"

My father stared at me across the table as my Aunt Aisling put my favorite coffee mug in front of me. It was a tall navy-blue mug with the Marine Corps Eagle Globe and Anchor emblazoned.

I sat silent and accepted his chastisement. And while embarrassed in front of Maxine, I wouldn't speak out of turn.

"Let me guess. Oh wait, I know," my uncle snapped. "Because Bongiovanni is a prick, he hates Johnny Keegan for what happened with his sister. So together, the two of you," he paused. He looked at Maxine, who sat beside me. "Not you, sweetheart." His tone changed from harsh to gentle as he looked into her eyes. "My nephew and his idiot partner Keegan have decided to make Bongiovanni's life as miserable as he's made Keegan's."

Aunt Aisling took his coffee cup from the table and replaced it with a bottle of Guinness. She walked behind me to Maxine and leaned into her ear.

"What do you need, darling? Coffee, water, beer...whiskey?" she chuckled. Her Irish brogue, thick.

Maxine sat still, wringing her hands. My aunt rubbed her shoulders and kissed her on the top of her head. "Whiskey it is," she said and left the room.

"And here we are." My uncle's tone was back. The frustration was evident in his harsh and exasperated delivery. I promised myself I wouldn't argue but let him yell it out first, then my father, and then I'd explain. But I could never predict what would happen next. Maxine's sudden, unexpected voice shattered the silence.

"Captain Kelly, sir. May I speak in defense of William?"

My eyes widened, and my face contorted as my skin tightened against my ears. I didn't budge, not even a flinch. But when I looked over at my uncle, I noticed a gentle expression on his face. His lips curled into a half smile, and he nodded.

"Of course you can. Please," said my uncle.

I shifted in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, and glanced at my father. He poured another generous amount of rum into his eggnog. No matter the season, he never went a day without drinking it.

I tried to get his attention by giving him a piercing gaze. My eyes widened. I even pushed myself forward, feeling a lump forming in my throat as I cleared it. But he showed no interest or concern.

"Before you do, please call me Michael, no actually, Uncle Mike, since the two of you are—"

"Uncle Mike, ah—"

"Am I talking to you, nephew? No. Let her speak." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and looked at Maxine. "Go ahead."

Maxine didn't hesitate but went straight into what she had to say, her tone confident and unwavering.

"Bongiovanni," she said. The inflection in her voice raised, as did her eyebrows. "He's a creep, always lurking in the shadows and making me uncomfortable." As Max's cheeks reddened, she took a deep breath. "He always touching me and wants in my pants in the worst way."

Oh, sweet Jesus. Here we go.

Aunt Ashling came into the room. Her face flushed, and she slammed my uncle's beer mug down in front of him. As she pushed past Max and me, she took the chair from the head of the table. She placed it beside Maxine, sat, and put her palm on Max's back. And Maxine didn't skip a beat.

"That's why Kelly didn't bring him the letter. Because Bongiovanni would try some kind of weird hero shit—I mean. I'm sorry."

"You're fine, girl. You keep going. Many's a worse word spoken in this house," said Aunt Aisling.

"William really has my best interest at heart. He left your family to come to me to ensure I was safe. That exceeds the responsibilities of an FTO." She looked at my father and then at Aunt Aisling. "He's really sweet, and he cares about my wellbeing."

As my aunt stood up, she leaned into Maxine's ear.

"I'm proud of you, girl. It took a lot of courage to speak out at this table. And yes, my nephew is a most special and loving man. I'm glad you have him."

2

My uncle and father gloved up as Maxine handed over the paper bag.

"Hold on," said Uncle Mike. He checked his front and back pockets and then scanned the table. "Aisling," he shouted. "Do you know where my phone is?"

My aunt walked through the doorway into the dining room and held it out limp-wristed. Her bottom jaw pushed forward, and her eyes squinted at him.

"What?" he snapped and shook his head.

"We'll talk later," she snapped back at him and left the room.

As my uncle opened the camera on his phone, taking a picture, my father gripped the bag. Then my dad opened the bag, and my Uncle Mike took another. My father's hands moved with precision as he put the bag on its side. To preserve the chain of evidence, my uncle transitioned from photography to videography.

"21:44 hours, retrieving a letter from a possible X-4 suspect left at Officer Maxine McMenamin's residence. 22 East 37th Street, Ortley. Transported by Corporal Kelly and said officer via vehicle. Package arrived as seen."

With a nod, my father went in, taking extra care to avoid touching it in the wrong place. As his hand withdrew from the bag, I felt Maxine's grip tighten around my belt.

"You're okay," I whispered, gentle and low.

"Officer McMenamin, is this the envelope you found when you returned home?"

"Yes, it is."

"Is it consistent with the letters you received two weeks ago?"

"Yes, it is."

My father and uncle looked at each other as my uncle propped his phone against the China neatly stacked in the dining room hutch.

They whispered something I couldn't hear. I felt Max draw closer to my hip. Her second hand took hold of my jeans pocket. I could feel her trembling against my arm and shoulder.

"Listen," I whispered. "The first letters didn't hurt you, and neither will this one." I took hold of her hand as our fingers interlaced. "I promise you won't be alone, not tonight or any other night, until I know you're safe."

My uncle waved Max over to the front of the table and into view of the camera. He held out his arm, inviting her to take a position before him, right against the ornamental lip.

"Okay, officer, just like before, you can open it and read it." Max's eyes darted into mine. They glazed over and were wide. The tears built up, causing her to blink. As my father saw her tear, he reached over and held her hand.

"I know you're scared and can't imagine how you might feel. But I'd like you to stop and look around you for one moment."

Aunt Aisling, always within earshot, regardless of the situation, walked back into the dining room and made a beeline for me.

Maxine witnessed the Kelly Clan almost in its entirety. My three cousins were away at college. My mother had passed the year before, and my Uncle Peter, never married, died in the line of duty. We were all represented.

The room was silent but filled with care, compassion, and a genuine love for Maxine.

"Max," said Uncle Mike, "I need you to open and read this aloud. If you need to stop, do so. Collect yourself and continue reading. This will help us understand the intent of the writer."

"We think he writes in your voice," said my father. "By that, I mean he thinks of your elicited response, which gives him pleasure and helps him to bind you to his bidding."

She looked into my eyes, and my heart dropped. I felt sick to my stomach and sweat. It overcame me with the urge to cry and rush to her and hold her as tight as I could. I wished to God that this wasn't happening and prayed that he would reveal who this monster was. But, despite the difficulty of admitting it, I knew this was inevitable.

She took the folded letter into her hand and broke through the seal.

"Twelve folds," she stammered. She cleared her voice and held the letter between trembling hands.

May 14, 2016

My dearest Maxine,

May I say you are at the forefront of my thoughts, like a guiding star illuminating my mind? Yes, my dearest one, you are my Shakespearean soliloquy. Indeed, at the end of each act, our protagonist, Dole of Saint Bonnot, speaks to the mirror. The watcher is either terrified or exhilarated as the conclusion memorializes his sacrificial conquest.

Thus, I am pleased to speak the tale of my 'Prissy One.' Unfortunately, hers is shameful and full of pity and great sadness. A dalliance with the unseen realm of wickedness exposed her as a promised child made some sixteen-plus years after her birth. Her end was her deliverance from a life spent in service to the lusts of men and a legacy of necromancers who dared disturb the dead.

And, yes, my dearest Maxine, my Prissy One, was most bitter to the taste. What looked and smelled so delightful did then sour my stomach the more of her I took.

Her scent, a sweetness I will not explain, at least not yet, brought me back to Yerushalayim and the Mugharet umm et Te'omim. In Aramaic mythology, the terrorizing tale tells of the mother of twins who demanded to illuminate human skulls with lampstands to raise the dead. Of course, the younger the "sacrificial skull," the better. And as I stood in the tunnels and corridors beneath the hills of Yerushalayim by lantern light and admired the lampstands, skulls, and cleaving axes, I found a sense of bitterness in the foolish pursuit to reckon the future by disturbing wickedness at its core.

The simple-minded seek the help of soothsayers and so-called speakers for the dead. Such nonsense of lies and fraud, that is, until you meet an actual puppet. The mere voice of the demonic ventriloquist. That is when fear should grip you, and you should flee.

It's a miracle to be touched by the messenger who brings the powers, intoxicating scent, and formidable strength of old-world Garnier.

In this, my closing, may I speak of the marvel of this modern wonder of social media. I am unsurprised that you graduated from the University of Massachusetts at Lowell Magna Cum Laude. Within the depths of my heart, I fervently pray and desire for you to never let go of your beloved, who carries himself with gentlemanly grace.

I am, dear lady, most affectionately yours,