Crowned Heads

by Thomas Tryon

  “Yes, Willie?”

  “No.”

  Arco whirled, rushed to the bar, and with a violent gesture swept the remaining glasses from the shelves, then the liquor bottles, which he seized by their necks and threw one after the other, crashing, out onto the floor. Next the refrigerator door was hurled open and with two or three quick movements he had cleared the shelves of champagne bottles. He tore the photographs from the wall and scaled them out into the room, where they fell helter-skelter. Then he was among them, tearing out the signed pictures from under the shattered glass and throwing them into the fire.

  “Everything, Willie, everything goes.”

  No reply.

  Lamps went over, and tables, chairs, the remaining mirrored screen striking the floor with a crash; jagged shards flew in all directions. Arco scrambled around until he had retrieved several of the crystal eggs, and assuming a pitcher’s stance, he lobbed them at the fish tanks. The glass panels shattered, water sluiced forth in cascades, carrying rainbows of fish, flopping, gasping, dying on the tiles. The dogs ran to investigate, then retreated as the rest of the aquariums broke. When they were empty, Arco dragged them from their shelves and heaved them through the panes of the sliding doors. Wind sucked the curtains out in pale gauzy flourishes.

  The cockatoo had not stopped screaming. Arco lunged at the birdcage and with a vicious yank tore it from its stand. The bird flapped wildly, its wings striking the wires, then, as the door was held open, it flew in crazed circles around the room until it blundered through a broken window and sailed low across the pool, and up into a palmetto tree.

  “Tell.”

  Arco’s breath came in frenzied pants as he stood in the chapel doorway, looking up at Willie. There was no answer. Turning, he rushed to the wall and snatched down one of the sabers and began attacking the sofa pillows, the sharp edge slicing through the fabric and sending feathers up in clouds. Then, brandishing it aloft, he began hacking at the chandelier, ducking his head after each swipe, as the crystal prisms rained around him. He had signaled to Bill, who took down the other saber, and together they ran about the room, slashing at everything in sight, coming at last to the cathedral figures at the fireplace. With a wild swing of his blade, Bill struck one of the heads, spattering chips in all directions.

  “Plaster?” Arco looked across the room. “Jesus, what a fake.”

  “Movie magic,” Willie muttered.

  They toppled the statues, and half crouched over them, wielding their blades with alternate strokes, like woodsmen, chopping; one of the heads rolled onto the floor. Its fellow soon followed, then, in turn, the arms and legs, until the dismembered trunks lay piled one on the other like a pair of decapitated corpses amid a pile of broken chips, over which hung a small cloud of plaster dust.

  Exhausted, Arco flung aside his saber and threw himself into a chair, gasping with exploded passion, clutching his stomach. Bill stumbled toward the chapel, dragging his saber, the point scraping on the tiles. He stared up, dazed, at Willie on the cross, the same sheepish but crooked smile puffing up his cheeks and making his eyes small. With his uneven teeth and chopped hair, there was something macabre, dangerous, about him; utterly unlike the simple, abashed cowboy who had arrived at the door—how many hours ago? He lurched into the chapel and lolled over the altar railing, his mouth slack and wet.

  “You better tell now, Willie. He’s damn mad.” Willie closed his eyes, heard only the voice. “He’s gonna hurt you, pardner. You don’t know him when he’s mad…. That out there”—he gestured haphazardly at the vandalized room—“heck, that’s nothin’.”

  Willie opened his eyes and stared out at the wreckage, his gaze moving across the sea of broken glass, the toppled cage, the watery floor where fish were still expiring in nervous agitation among sodden pillow feathers. A back draft in the chimney blew ashes up in a black gust, and they settled about the room, mixing with the grayer ones that were the remains of Beetrice Marsh.

  “It … doesn’t matter,” he said weakly. “Give me something … to drink … ?”

  “No.” Bill went away, leaving Willie alone in the chapel. He could see their heads together in connivance beyond the back of the sofa. Someone had turned the records over: Mantovani and Music for a Rainy Night; appropriate. In its fetters of black tape and plastic cord his body began trembling, shaking uncontrollably. The circulation had left his arms, his legs, and he could feel his heart throbbing; nothing would quiet it. Sharp pains shot through his head. He looked at the empty place on the mantel, and the portrait above.

  Whatever had happened still seemed fitting, cause and effect. Whatever had brought him to this bizarre place he now occupied seemed to him some logical proper conclusion. Here was the crux of it, the crux become cross: his place of torment. It was a joke—a bad one, but still a joke, wasn’t it? They’d put him up here to embarrass him, make a foolish old man more foolish. The living metaphor. Decide. Decide to come down. He knew he would not. Not of his own volition. He would never tell them. It was the biggest joke of all.

  He looked at the face staring back at him, the famous Bee smile. Her eyes, averted as though by personal delicacy from the litter of shattered mirror and glass, were directed at him, a confrontation which said only—almost wistfully—that this was none of her doing; she had no part in it.

  You have got yourself in, my Billyboy, you must get yourself out. She sat in unperturbed quietude, in another age, almost another century, with no hair out of place, oblivious to the havoc, while maintaining the prominence that had always been hers in life. “My Billyboy’s a churchgoer again,” she used to tell people proudly after his conversion. “I can die a happy woman.” She had wooed him into the hands of the Jesuits, who sternly and valiantly wrestled for his soul. They had won, although he would have preferred the Franciscans, who were more indulgent; but in religion as in life he was not to know clemency.

  Smile, dearest Bee.

  Then suddenly, for the first time, he realized it was no joke; there was nothing to smile about.

  He had chosen his final role; and for once it was to be his own choice, not hers. That would be the metaphor. Whatever prospect it held, he would offer nothing except mute defiance. He would let them hurt him, his defiance would be meant not for them but for her, whom he had never defied. For her he had denied himself everything, every vestige of any sort of life he had really wanted. Now, naked, he would divest himself of himself. And of her. This was a thing he could do in a way that only he could do it; without Bee. It was between him and Arco. Or between him and God.

  “See me, Mama, see me now.” But could she? See him? He doubted it; doubted she wanted to.

  In front of the fire the girl bent, dragging some sort of sack—a pillowcase?—which she was filling, like a dispossessed creature looting the ruins after a bomb blast. With a squeal of glee she stood, placing Fedora’s rhinestone crown on her head. She tramped back and forth in front of what mirrors remained intact.

  “Look—look, Fedora—see? I’m Fedora.”

  Jazzy, bopping, balancing the crown, she came picking her way through the glass, and moved into the light of the chapel. “Hi. How ya doin’? You okay, sweetie?” He tried to laugh, then coughed and swallowed. He felt he was choking. He managed to clear his throat with dry hawks, and spat from the corner of his mouth. “Scusi,” he said to her, vainly trying to wipe his chin against his shoulder. The crown slid again; she caught it and turned as rapid footfalls were heard. Arco reappeared, his pale face skeletal, almost devoid of flesh, the delicate bones fiercely modeled in the light. He came with purpose. He wore pink rubber cleaning gloves from the kitchen and his paired hands cupped a vessel of some sort, like a votive offering, a glass, containing an amount of clear liquid that gleamed in the light. His voice was soft but quite clear as he told Willie what it was.

  “Acid, Willie. From the car battery. You better shut your eyes.” He came forward, holding the glass away from his chest, motioning the others to safety. Together Bill and J
udee retreated to the wall, watching in fascination. “Acid, Willie, hear me?” he went on. “It won’t do your face any good.” He opened the gate and stepped through, extending the glass. “It’s your last chance, Willie. You want to tell now?”

  “No.” He made no attempt to protect himself.

  “I’m going to throw it, Willie,” Arco told him. “On the count of three. One …” Glass poised, he waited. “You want to tell?” Willie made no reply.

  Arco pronounced warningly, “Two, Willie.” He brought the glass nearer and upward, standing to one side to avoid the liquid’s splashing on his own body. “Tell.” Willie remained silent. Arco waited another moment, then brought the glass closer. He held it suspended for another moment, and whispered, “Three, Willie.” His hand described a quick, neat arc, the glass tipped, and the viscous liquid flew upward into Willie’s face.

  “It burns,” he screamed, his head writhing as the liquid splattered and ran down his cheeks. “It burns!”

  “Does it, Willie?” Arco made a little swagger, mocking and tinged with disgust.

  “Oh, God,” Willie cried, “God, how it burns!” His body tore against the slack of the restraining cords, his wrists yanked at the tapes. Arco let the glass drop, and crossed his arms on his chest, watching clinically as the liquid slid down Willie’s bare chest. Some of it dripped on his feet, and fell on the rug. Willie groaned.

  “Judee.” Arco’s voice cracked out, and as if by habit the girl stirred, then came from the wall. Pointing at the feet, he drew her through the gate. “Lick them.”

  “Lick them?” She tried to pull away; he held her, pushed her forward.

  “What I said—lick them.”

  “Jesus—it’s acid,” she protested as he forced her closer to the feet. He waited another moment, then released her with a low chuckle.

  “Does it hurt, Willie? Does it hurt bad?”

  “Yes! Yes! It hurts!”

  “You lying son-of-a-bitch. You know what it is? Pickle juice.” Reaching behind with his foot, he kicked open the gate and passed from the room without looking back. Bill and Judee were breaking up, falling over each other with laughter. Watermelon pickle juice.

  “Oh, Willie,” Judee said, watching him and shaking her head. “If you could’ve seen your face. Honest, you had me fooled. I really thought it was burning.”

  Bill had left for another conference in the game room. He and Arco sat together on the sofa. Arco stripped off the rubber gloves, puffing another cigar, and Willie could hear the angry rise of his expostulations. Then he moved diagonally toward the bar and came back with a sheaf of darts in his hand. He began throwing them at the portrait over the mantel. One struck Bee’s cheek. Another her neck. A third her bosom. Willie winced, but he watched as if hypnotized. Arco threw another; it struck the canvas, pierced it, and the point was embedded in the wall behind. He had to stand on a chair to retrieve the darts; on a level with the picture, he drew on his cigar until the tip glowed red, and he pressed it into Bee’s eye; smoke curled; he did the same thing to the other eye, there was more smoke, and when he stepped down, Bee stared out from dark, sightless holes. He moved away again, returned, this time with the saber. He touched the sharp point to the top of the canvas, then slashed the fabric, which flopped out of the frame. Then the portrait fell, struck the mantel, and tumbled to the floor. He turned and looked to the cross. “I’ll do the rest of them the same way.” He was moving along the wall, slashing canvases, one after the other, and he threw them at the fireplace, where the varnished canvases caught, flamed, sizzled, smoked.

  The famous and valuable Marsh collection.

  Tossing the saber aside, Arco collected the darts again, made a bundle of them, then divided it into two separate bundles, handed one to Judee, and advanced with her into the chapel.

  “Throw a couple,” he told her.

  She giggled, then shrieked at the notion. “Oh, Arco, you’re crazy!”

  Willie looked down on them. They would throw the darts all around him, trying to frighten him. It no longer mattered. He had denied himself everything, shed everything, every vestige of his life, his personal respect; his “izzat.” Even his sense of himself, of his mother. The mutilation of the portrait had sickened him, yet he did not feel guilty—it had also given him an exquisite thrill. He realized now how he had hated that painting, the “Smiling Bee.” And yes—he had hated her, too. But that he had realized only then, in that very moment.

  I hate you, Bee, he had thought. I have hated you all my life. He was laughing then; painful waves of uncontrollable mirth shook his body, racked him. Arco looked up suspiciously.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “What … you … asked … me. Before. What it’s like. Movie star. Bullshit. Want to know that? It’s a crock.”

  “What?”

  “Said … fifty years … it’s … a … crock.” His words astonished not only Arco, but himself as well. It was a terrible admission to make; yet, for him, at least, it was true. He could say it. Arco grinned delightedly.

  “Glad you’ve seen the light, Willie. Now tell.” Willie only shook his head.

  “Tell, Willie,” Arco repeated threateningly, holding a dart aloft, “or I’ll do it.” The sharp steel point made delicate, tentative passes in the air.

  “Do it,” Willie said. He would not tell. He had repudiated his mother, himself, his career; he had only his God now. “Do it,” he said again; he would not tell. But of course they wouldn’t; it was still part of the game, another joke to frighten him. Then the gray striped feathers revolved in the light as the dart left Arco’s hand and struck Willie in the thigh. He grunted, but made no sound.

  “Go ahead,” Arco ordered the girl impatiently, and she nervously raised a dart. Her hand trembled, drew back. Arco nodded at her. The feathers made a slight whir as they passed through the air, and the point stuck Willie in the side, just under the rib cage. She gave a little squeal. The dart held for a moment, then slipped out and dropped on the rug.

  “No points, Wimp. You really got to get—it—in—there.” His hand made another arc, a dart flew from his fingers, striking Willie above the groin. His pelvis convulsed, and the blunt impact of wood and bone could be heard as his coccyx struck the cross behind him. “See,” said Arco, “in there.”

  “Like—that?” Judee threw another; it caught Willie in the other thigh, where it dangled. Points of red showed, and minute tricklings of blood.

  “Not bad,” Arco said, “but still no bull’s-eye.”

  “Saint Sebastian,” she said, giggling. She threw another.

  “I bet pinmakers all over the world are saying their blessings tonight.” Arco’s hand came up again and the last dart left his hand. When Judee had thrown her remaining one, Arco came through the gate and stared up at the victim on the cross.

  “We can keep this up all night, if you want,” he said dispassionately. “With a little practice, Judee could get real good.” He withdrew the darts one by one and clutched them in his hand, their bloodied points glinting redly. “You want them again?” He waited for an answer, gave half the darts to Judee.

  “He wants them again.”

  They took their turns, and one after the other the darts sailed through the air, striking and penetrating the drawn, withered flesh. Still Willie made no cry, only an occasional whimper. Then there was a third round. Arco was right: Judee was getting better.

  Bill had appeared from somewhere out of the darkness, dragging the saber with him; he stared up with a stupefied expression.

  “Jesus, what a freaking sight.” He fell to his knees, his arms upraised, gripping the saber hilt and swashing the air with the blade in exaggerated amusement. “Oh, Jesus, Arco, what a sight. Groovy, man. I’m gettin’ off on it. Christ, Arco, you are warped.”

  “As the twig is warped, so grows the tree, babe. Don’t give him any more to drink.”

  Willie’s face dripped perspiration: the make-up slid from his lips and eyes and ran in garish rivulets alo
ng his chin and jawbone. He seemed unaware of what had happened to him. Arco and the girl had gone away; Bill remained, making gashes in the damask wall upholstery and tearing away the fabric in huge pieces whose ends trailed on the carpeting. Then he, too, left and Willie hung there, the darts still sticking in him. He saw the girl go past to turn on the radio. She slid out of her halter and danced across the black and white tiles, her breasts jiggling. “How I started, sweetie,” she called. “Topless, y’know.” She laughed, then was past his line of vision, but he could hear her at the bar, telephoning. Bill had shouted that he had the munchies and was going to raid the kitchen again. Willie’s head dropped, and he stared down at the feathered barbs hanging from his flesh, the growing dribbles of blood. Music came from the radio. “California dreamin’ is becoming a realiteeee …”

  Arco returned another time, carrying a lighted candle. He came through the gate and stood at the base of the cross, where he tilted the candle sideways. The hot wax dripped on Willie’s bare feet. His toes moved, separated, curled; he did not cry out. Arco watched him carefully, as if testing him to determine the limits of his endurance.

  “Pray, Willie,” he said softly.

  “Yes. Our Father, who art in heaven—”

  “You don’t believe.”

  “I do.”

  “You’re a fraud. The cross you hang on is a fraud. Your God is a fraud.”

  “I believe. I do. I do.” The old man mumbled, muttered, wincing as the wax fell. “Want to believe. Trying to … want to … want to … Dear God, help me believe. Mother? Mama? Want to believe.” He was crying. Tears welled up under his closed lids and rolled down his cheeks.