Crowned Heads

by Thomas Tryon

  “Hey, man,” Bill said, cradling him, “hey man …”

  The room, for the moment, appeared deserted; but that was only the room, and only Willie’s way of looking at it. In the dimly reflecting planes of mirror it seemed he could make out the truer sense of the place, those remembered figures and images, woozy and half-realized fantasy shapes, that once had brought it life, where people, music, conversation, flowers carefully arranged, food lavishly provided, gave it breadth and sweep and animation; but all these, he saw, were only shadows of that past which had died with Bee’s death, were gone, never to come again. He hiccupped, then glimpsed a quick flash of movement, and looked to see the girl’s elfin face—her name was forgotten again—peer down at him.

  “Hi, sweetie. Feelin’ better? Gee, didn’t it rain some?”

  As far as Willie Marsh was concerned, the last two hours or more had been a washout even before the rain began. His plan for the group to watch the TV broadcast of The Player Queen on Classic Movies was spoiled, since Bill remained out in the lanai barbecuing hot dogs, while Arco wandered around the room making a careful inventory of the memorabilia, and Judee, in a terry-cloth robe from the cabaña, curled cutely like a movie ingenue on the sofa, interrupted the picture a dozen times with questions and comments. A fire smoldered in the grate; the logs were damp. Bill popped in at polite intervals and caught a look, though Willie could tell he wasn’t greatly interested. Arco had called him, and they initiated a game of darts while the hot dogs overcooked. They ate, finally, watching the last reel, a form of silence which might have passed for boredom, and even Willie had found himself unabashedly yawning. So much for The Player Queen. The rain ended, a quick summer storm, but it leaked and dripped from every palm frond, and night fog had rolled in from Santa Monica, reducing the glimmering city view to a murky blur. When Willie turned off the set Judee wanted to put more records on. She patted his mirrored cap and told him he sure used to be a handsome fellow when he was young, and took Arco to dance, her platforms clattering like sabots, he moving lithely, balletically, the way a cat would; too feline, Willie thought, for a man.

  Spread across the glass-topped coffee table was the litter of the improvised meal, with the half-chewed ends of hot dog rolls and mustardy napkins and smears of red ketchup and curled watermelon pickle. Wet horseshoe-shaped marks had crushed the nap of the velvet chair seats that someone had thoughtlessly lounged on in a damp towel, and the dogs had torn apart one of the velvet sofa pillows, in which Arco had playfully tucked their rubber toy.

  Idly, dizzily, Willie again wished that they would go, but no one took the hint of his elaborate yawns. Bill clumped back and forth to the bar, bringing more champagne and other drinks; Willie didn’t know what they were, didn’t care. A good deal more pot had been smoked; the room still reeked of cannabis. More pills of undisclosed prescription had been swallowed. After a while the other two stopped dancing and disappeared, he had no idea where. Then Bill, too, was unseen for a time; Willie wasn’t sure, but he had an idea they were investigating other parts of the house. He felt too weak to remonstrate; everything seemed vague, remote. It was almost as if a spell had been cast over the place, though whether of enchantment or evil he could not tell. Vague currents of emotions swirled through the room, intangible feelings whose sources he could not trace or identify.

  The girl came clattering back on her platforms, swinging her hips in a campy trollop’s slouch she called her “trash walk,” one hand on a hip, the fingers of the other spiraling her frizzed mop of hair. “Ya look all strung out, sweetie—are ya depressed?” She stopped and tickled him; he cried out sharply, moved back. He hated being tickled; it was painful to him.

  She sat beside him, touching his hand. She smelled of a familiar scent: she had been upstairs at Bee’s vanity table.

  “You’re using a dead woman’s perfume,” he told her.

  “Ooh,” she squeaked in her child’s treble. “I don’t like to think about death. It makes me all squirrely inside. I like to think about living; it’s so much nicer, isn’t it?” She cuddled closer to him, as though for her own comfort.

  “Yes. Yes, it is,” he agreed solemnly. Someone approached across the floor, a large, loping hulk, heels scraping on the tiles.

  “Ah, Bill, where’ve you been?”

  “We wuz jes’ havin’ a look at the pitchers in the dinin’ room. You havin’ a good time?”

  “Cert’nly am.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really sure?”

  “Really sure.” In his djellabah and embroidered cap Willie felt a little exotic, raffish even.

  Bill flipped out and pointed his finger pistols—choo choo—gunning down his image in a mirror, reholstered them, moved away again. On the TV screen was a silent graphic shot of a family group; the caption read: “Parents—do you know where your children are tonight?” Judee flopped off the Marion Davies sofa and went to join Bill and Arco at the aquariums. Willie closed his eyes, the room turned inside his head. Why wasn’t Norma Shearer here tonight? Irene Selznick? Bill Holden, Roz, Junior Fairbanks? Where were Willie Wyler, Billy Wilder and Audrey? “Sing something, Judy,” he murmured, meaning Garland, but it was the two e’s who giggled.

  Opening his eyes again, he saw their blurred heads clustered together, dark against the brightly lighted fish tanks, with blue-green and gold reflections tossed to the ceiling and back again, subaqueous figures in an undersea cave, their faces now in profile, now turned away, huddled, ostensibly watching the fish, and they might have been fish themselves, undulant, slow-moving in the room, and brightly decorative. Willie envied them their easy rapport, their casual interchange of affection, their … trioness, no point of which could be breached by him, for that would make a square.

  “Ol’ square,” he mumbled, resetting the embroidered cap on his head.

  “Hey, Willie—c’mere.” Someone was asking the names of the fish; he rose unsteadily and went to supply some: zebras, white clouds, sailfin mollies, blue terras.

  “No piranhas?” Arco had heard of a man who kept piranhas in a pool in his garden, “and if you stick your hand in all you’d get back is a mess of bones.”

  Willie paused uncertainly, weaving in the light, watching with a stuporous expression. Drunk himself, he found it difficult to tell just how high on drugs Arco was. “Piranhas can be dangerous. Wouldn’t recommend them for around the house.”

  Arco was half turned away, the marblelike planes of his face absorbing light from the tanks as he watched the fish with fierce concentration. It came to Willie then, the image he had been seeking. Arco reminded him of one of those Zurbarán figures of churchly piety that the Prado Museum is full of, those darkly brooding, saintly figures which seem to glow with an inner incandescence, a trick of the painter’s art. Arco had the look of the ascetic whose intensity of expression verged on the fanatical, an almost holiness of purpose; was it merely about buying an island in the Pacific in order to go pick coconuts?

  His eye trailed a fish as it lazed through a pink stone castle, fanning the silvery membranes of its tail. Now he slid aside a pane of glass on the top of the tank, his hand flashed, dipped into the water, and he scooped up the fish and brought it out squirming in his palm.

  “Hey, Wimp.”

  “No,” Willie said. “Put it back.”

  “Sure sure, just want to see something.” He held the fish out to Judee, who stared uncomprehendingly. “Eat it, Jude.”

  She gave a nervous little laugh; her hand fluttered to her breast.

  “It’s alive, Arco—”

  “I know. Swallow it. I want to see something.”

  “Put it back,” Willie protested again. Without looking, Arco fended him off with his elbow.

  “Do it, Wimp.” His voice was quiet, level, but with a core of steely authority. He held the quivering fish closer, and her eyes started. There was a moment’s indecision, then she put her head back and opened her mouth wide. Arco slid the fish inside. She cl
osed her mouth, and clutched her throat as she swallowed. Then her smile returned, her eyes danced, and she flung herself away, holding her stomach and screeching shrilly as she turned round and round.

  “Ooh—Arco, I can feel it—it’s wriggling.” Her hand moved upward and downward, examining the sensation. “Ooh! Ooh!” she cried in little spurts of newly discovered joy. “It’s jumping around. What a trip!”

  “See?” Arco said. “Anytime you want a trip, call me.”

  “Oh, Arco, you’re such a crazy person!” She found a glass and took to washing the fish down in gulps of champagne. Eventually she and Bill drifted away and began dancing in the far, shadowy corner, she lolling languorously against him and dragging her shoes noisily, neck arched in a white line, pelvis thrusting in and upward at him, he moving with a pathetic lack of rhythm and the proverbial grace of the bull in the china shop. Willie feared for his bibelots.

  Weaving, swaying, he watched Arco as he passed along the wall, reviewing several paintings—the Buffet, the Cadmus drawing, the Bemelmans gouache of a nun’s face under a starched wimple and flying headdress—then moving farther along to take in the carved figures mounted on square pedestals on either side of the fireplace.

  “Where’d you get them?” he asked, flopping into a chair.

  “They came out of the MGM auction. Church figures. Very old.”

  “Quattrocento?” Again, the mocking insinuation.

  “We really don’t know, but they’ve been authenticated by the museum. They probably came out of some cathedral in Italy. We think they’re very beautiful. Ge’Italiani sono grandi amanti della bellezza.”

  “‘Italians are great lovers of beauty’—yes, pizza parlors with plaster flamingos on the lawns.” He crossed his knee and made himself comfortable, lighting up a fresh joint and inhaling the smoke.

  “Why did you leave the seminary?” Willie asked.

  “Discipline, man, discipline. I mean they’ve got the whole thing worked out. They didn’t like me much.”

  “Why not?”

  “Said I was a troublemaker.” He inhaled deeply, held the smoke down, his face growing red as he talked on his stifled breath.

  “Why?”

  “Asked questions. All the time I was asking questions. And they had no answers.”

  “The Church has an answer for everything.”

  “Oh?” He swung his leg over the chair arm and dangled it indolently. “Possibly they do. ‘You must believe,’ they said. ‘Believe what?’ I asked. ‘What we tell you,’ they said. ‘How can I know it’s right?’ I asked. ‘Because we tell you,’ they said.” He smoked in silence, taking deep drags, his puffs eating up the tobacco, and when he had finished he wet the end of the roach and popped it into his mouth. He swallowed it, winked at Willie. “Better than live fish.” They both turned as through the chapel doors a sudden blast sounded from the organ, setting the crystal ornaments on the tables to rattling. This was followed by some tentative pickings at the keys, then a few bars of a song, then the sound of Judee’s sandpapery voice, singing.

  “‘My mama done tol’ meee’”—bump—“‘when I was in knee pa-a-ants’”—bump—Each bump was an accented chord, played slightly off key.

  “Ridiculous,” Willie muttered, struggling to rise; his feet had gone painfully to sleep. “That’s not proper music for a chapel.”

  When Judee had completed the eight bars, she began again. “‘My mama done tol’ meee’”—bump—“‘when I was in knee pa-a-ants’”—bump—

  Arco got up, clapped Willie on the shoulder, silencing his protests. “What’s the difference?” he said, steering him to the bar. Bill appeared, then joined them. Arco jerked his head toward the chapel.

  “What’s the Wimp doing in there?”

  “Havin’ fun.”

  Arco turned to Willie. “See? Havin’ fun, that’s all. No harm.” Passing it off, he sat the still muttering Willie down on a stool and poured him a Scotch and water. Willie didn’t take it, so Arco placed his fingers around the glass and held it to his lips. Willie drank.

  “‘My mama done tol’ meee’”—bump—

  Arco cupped his hands and shouted, “Cool it, Wanda Landowska.”

  Judee paid no attention, started over. Arco’s look darkened.

  “It’s quite all right, really,” Willie said. “If it amuses her. She’s young; maybe she’ll improve.” He drank, and twirled the cubes in his glass. “Heigh-ho. ‘Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait,’ eh?” He gave Bill a broad wink. Arco’s frown remained.

  “What’s that mean?” Bill asked.

  “‘If youth but knew, if age but could.’”

  “Could what?”

  “He means if he could get it up,” Arco snorted. Willie seemed suddenly to have wilted; his hand fell into his lap, he slid sideways against the bar. Arco signaled to Bill, who tried to prop him up. “You okay, Willie?”

  “’Kay,” Willie mumbled, opening his eyes. “’M okay.”

  “Listen—remember what you said you were gonna do f’r me?”

  “Do? Do?”

  “Doo doo doo,” Arco muttered under his breath, drumming his fingers on the bar.

  “You’re gonna give me that autographed pitcher, huh? T’ start m’ collection, pardner?”

  “Picture …” Willie mouthed wordlessly, blinking at him. He sat up, suddenly aware again. “Yes. Course. I ’member.” He went to a box on a shelf, slipped out an eight-by-ten glossy, brought it back to the bar and showed it. “This will do?” He went behind the bar and opened a drawer. He found a pen among a jumble of things and began writing across the bottom of the photograph in a wildly florid script: “To Bill …” “Last name? Forget it …” Bill gave it again. “Bowie. Handsome is as handsome does. I have nothing but the highest faith in your star. Affectionately, Willie Marsh.” He slid it along the bar to Bill, who held it out and read the words.

  “Goldarn, that’s right nice. I really ’prishate it.”

  “S’all right, m’dear.”

  “Don’t call him your dear.” Arco’s words came out in a tightly controlled threat.

  Willie shrugged. “Jus’ ’n expression, that’s all. Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Fuck it doesn’t.” Arco’s voice had gone suddenly ugly. He grabbed the photograph; Bill tried to take it, but Arco held it away. “I’m not going to hurt it,” he said, keeping it at arm’s length and studying it. “Long time ago, huh, Willie?”

  “It was taken by a studio photographer.”

  Arco laughed harshly. “Man, you haven’t worked at a studio in—how long’s it been?”

  “I’m … semiretired.”

  “Bet your ass you’re retired. Washed up, is what you are.” He made a motion as if to tear the picture in half, then laughed again and handed it to Bill. “Okay, jasper, stick it up in the bathroom where you can look at it every morning while you crap.” He snapped the words out crisply; Willie stared in amazement, trying to accommodate the swift, volatile alteration of personality. Arco hunched his narrow shoulders, looking like a small but dangerous animal. His hand shot suddenly out, collaring Bill and pulling him to him. He grasped his face between his hands and forced it in front of Willie, who cowered back on his stool. “You see him, Willie? You see him? You want to know about him? He’s bad, Willie. You watch out for Bill Bowie. He’s a killer.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Arco—” Bill protested, trying to extricate himself, but the small, strong hands held him fast.

  “He’s a killer, Willie,” he repeated. “You want to know what he’s come here for? He’s come to rob you. That’s right—rob you. It’s a fact.” He suddenly released Bill, who jerked away, rubbing his head where Arco’s fingers had gripped him. Arco leaned and placed his hands on Willie’s knees. “But don’t you worry, Little Willie. Arco’s here. And you know why he’s here, Willie?”

  The older man shook his head, understanding nothing of it.

  “He’s here to save you, Willie,” he said, bringing his face
closer and speaking very softly. “Arco’s here, and he’ll save you. From what? Ask me from what, Willie.”

  “Fr’m what?” he said blandly.

  “From yourself, Willie. I’m going to save you from yourself.” He reared back on his stool in a wildly uncontrolled burst of laughter, then slapped Willie’s knee again. “Hey, man, don’t look so scared. Where’s your sense of humor?”

  Willie looked around uncertainly. “You said … rob me.”

  “I meant your izzat, Willie. You mustn’t ever let anybody rob you of your izzat, see. It’s all a man has.”

  “You mean—all a joke?”

  “Sure, just a joke.” The ugly menace had disappeared and in its place was the shining smile, the sparkling eyes. Relieved, almost pleased, Willie grinned from one to the other as Arco leaned back cozily and drew Bill to him, his small pale arm circling his waist. Judee reappeared, singing. “‘My mama done tol’ meee …’” She put her hands behind her head and did a stripper’s grind. “Bump! What’s all the ruckus, gang?” she asked. “It’s not gonna be one of those nights, is it?”

  “Jesus, don’t you know another song?” Arco whirled on her and raised his hand; she ducked past him with a frightened look and moved behind Bill for protection.

  “C’mon, c’mon, no fights t’night, huh?” Bill pleaded.

  Arco laughed. “Wimp, if you’re going to do that number you’ve got to learn the bridge.” Then suddenly they were all laughing again; it seemed to be a game they were playing. Willie didn’t understand, couldn’t keep up with it all. He slumped against the bar, closed his eyes, ran his fingers over his forehead. Someone whispered something; someone else giggled. There was complicity in the room. He didn’t care; let them have their fun, their childish games. Crazy people, they were all crazy people. He shrugged; he was beyond the games, outside it all, just trying to be a good host. He opened his eyes, looked around at the mess. Styleless, graceless, witless. He glimpsed his face in a mirror: scarlet spots had sprung on his cheeks, circles like those painted on a toy soldier’s face; his nose seemed larger, redder, a toper’s nose. He became aware of Bill standing behind him, massaging his shoulders and neck.