Sophie positioned herself opposite me and shuffled her beloved tarot deck, the worn cards falling smoothly through her fingers. “Have you cleared your mind, dear?” she asked. I nodded but hadn’t—and couldn’t. Thoughts of Cleve rose up. Where was he? And how was Miss Martins involved? Then Judy. What an awful thing Roy Barnes had done to her! And even Sophie. Her makeup so thick, so much more than she typically wore. Why?
Sophie asked me if I had a specific question for the cards or whether I wanted a general reading. I requested the overview. I had too many questions to decide on one.
She asked me to hold the deck and shuffle it. I did, and she took the cards from me, held them to her forehead with a touch of melodrama, and began laying out a Celtic cross formation on the table. She spaced two cards in the center, one over the other, then one card for each end of a crossbar, starting at the bottom and moving clockwise, ending with four cards, bottom to top, running up the right side of the cross.
I don’t usually take her readings seriously, but I love how she interprets the cards—like the mysterious blind swordswoman in Two of Swords or the surrealistic collection of gold goblets in Seven of Cups—and threads together the present, past, and future. They don’t provide a map of my fate (if you believe in that sort of thing), but an arabesque of possibilities. Each reading soothes me like my mother’s handwritten marginalia. Each card or each note, a gentle nudge or hint, never a command or an absolute.
The first card she laid down was the Chariot, which seemed positive or, at very least, neutral. On it, a warrior in full armor faces forward with a canopy of stars behind him. Two Egyptian sphinxes, one black and one white, tow his chariot. Horizontal over the first, the second card was the Devil—a cat-faced monster with swirling horns, bat wings, hairy legs, and taloned feet, squatting on a pedestal. He grips a torch in his left hand and points it down toward—what? Hell? He holds his right hand high, his middle finger and ring finger split in a perverse blessing. A white pentagram hovers over his head, and a naked horned man and woman pose at his feet, a chain looped around their necks. It was horrifying—and had never surfaced for me before.
“Now,” Sophie said, detecting my concern, “remember, there are no good cards or bad cards.” Yeah, right.
“What does it mean?” I said, my distress spilling over.
“The first card is your present,” Sophie said, smiling kindly. “The Chariot is about articulating a wish—or to be more specific, it’s about how articulating your wish will give you direction, even momentum. The sphinxes represent mysteries, riddles. You must find your way through the labyrinth in your heart by saying what you want—it’s the cord that runs through your life and guides you. Perhaps this is about school? Or even your missing classmate?”
“And the Devil?”
“Well…” Sophie took a deep breath. “The Devil is a heavier card.” Heavier!
“But what does it mean?”
“It’s both ‘the vampire’ and ‘deprived child.’ ”
“Wonderful.” She was failing to reassure me. Of course, arguably that was not her job.
“It suggests something is burdening you, something is weighing on you. Like a vampire, it’s draining positive energy from you.”
“And what does the depraved child mean?” I stuck out my bottom lip like an ugly baby, trying to make a joke, trying to remember I didn’t take this stuff seriously. “Is that supposed to be me?”
Sophie laughed. “Deprived, not depraved.”
Queen of Wands surfaced next. On the card, the queen sits on her throne, grasping a long wooden staff and sunflower. At her feet, a black cat stares out with sinister yellow eyes. Sophie had drawn Queen of Wands for me many times. In this position, it suggests a warm memory. I thought about my recollection of Sophie doing a reading for me years ago. Her kind eyes came to me, not as they are, but as they were.
Then came the Moon, a bright gold disk in a blue sky between two stark towers. Its crescent face is downcast, somber. A wolf and dog look up at it longingly, and at its center, a lobster or crayfish crawls out of a stream. Sophie had never drawn the Moon for me. It was a reading of firsts.
The study door swung open with a bang, and Judy plunged in. “Checkers was a bust,” she said, bearing down on us. “We couldn’t find the board.”
“We’re in the middle of a reading,” Sophie said, straightening her back. Judy loomed over the table. I wanted to tell Judy to knock it out, that she was being rude.
“So sorry,” she said with a false ring. “Wow,” she added, snatching the Devil from the center of the spread and holding it at arm’s length. “Phew. You’re in trouble!”
“Judy,” my aunt snapped, “put it back. Readings are personal.”
“Oops,” she said with an exaggerated shrug. She replaced it gingerly.
“The checkerboard is stored on the bottom shelf of the cabinet in the hall,” Sophie said. “Now, please…”
“Sorry for the intrusion.” As she turned to go, she winked at me.
After the door clicked in place, Sophie looked at me; her kind, expansive eyes were now drawn together, incisive. “Philippa,” she said, glancing down at the spread as if it were a broken piece of china. “She’s bad news. All around her, there’s a backdrop of shadows.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked. Judy had been rude, but she shouldn’t be dismissed so sharply.
She frowned. “Do you really like her?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Trust me,” she said, shaking her head. “She’s dangerous.”
“So, what are you saying? She’s the Devil?” I gave a little forced laugh.
“No—but she carries him with her.”
I started to get up. I’d had enough. Sophie picked up a card that she’d laid to the side, seized my wrist, and shoved it into my hand. It was Justice, cloaked in red, crowned in gold, holding a sword upright and, of course, her balancing scales.
“You should make your wish, articulate your intention,” she said, still gripping me, her skin clammy. “This is your personality card, remember. The sum of the digits of your birthday.”
“Dad doesn’t approve of this,” I said, shaken. “He says it’s all nonsense.”
She released me. “He’s never believed in my gifts.”
I remembered her hand on mine all those years ago, reminding me I was special—and burdened. “Did my mother believe in them?”
“I wasn’t paying attention to that part of myself back then,” she said, her face draining of color. “It was only after her death that I—” She suddenly gritted her teeth; her chin began wobbling and a tremor shook her body.
“What’s wrong?” I said, panicking. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes were damp, but her cheeks began to regain their color. “I’m in a bit of a predicament, Philippa—a physical predicament.” She smiled wearily.
“I don’t understand.”
“I have cancer.”
“Oh, god.” I steadied myself against the table and willed myself not to cry; I wasn’t going to do that to her; she’s been strong for me over the years, hiding the depth of her loss.
“I was going to tell you last night, but the time just wasn’t right. I told your father and Bonnie today, and of course, Quincy knows.” Her eyelids fluttered, and she raised her hand to her mouth. I squeezed the edge of the table harder. “It’s bone cancer. I’ve found a wonderful doctor in Frederick, and I’ve started Koch’s antitoxin therapy. I’m hoping for the best, but it’s…” She glanced down at the unfinished tarot reading. “Oh, who am I fooling?”
I went to her and wrapped my arms around her. I breathed in her gardenia scent. Under it, I smelled the ripe odor of sickness, a faint whiff of mothballs and urine. I couldn’t hold it in; I burst into tears.
“Now, honey, don’t cry,” Sophie said. “I’m not gone yet.”
I wanted to fall to the floor and roll around and pound it with my fists! So much had been taken from me: my mother, my home in San Fra
ncisco, Miss Martins, and now Sophie.
“Now, niece,” she said, pulling away. “We should finish this reading. What’s your intention, your wish?”
I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “Please don’t die, Sophie. Promise me.”
She hung her head and said, “I can’t promise that. No one can promise that.”
A sob ballooned in my chest, but before it burst, Judy’s flushed face as we plunged through the cemetery flashed through my mind, and I thought, “Whatever happens, don’t take her from me? Not her, not ever.”
I should’ve wished for Sophie to live or Cleve to turn up or Miss Martins to return to school. I should’ve prayed, not flung a wish out into the cosmos. A wave of guilt crested in me, but then, like that, it dissolved. What I’d thought felt right and good—and now it feels more like a fact than a wish, like it’s already happened, that it just is.
PHILIPPA, OCTOBER 25, 1948
As I walked into the kitchen this morning, Bonnie said, “My goodness, Philippa”—she was facing the stove—“you slept nearly eleven hours. The drive home knocked you out.” She pivoted and scraped scrambled eggs from the frying pan. She was wearing an ill-fitting floral housedress, her hair was a nest of tight curls, and her face was strained, lacking makeup. I didn’t respond. Dad was at the kitchen table. He slowly lowered his Washington Post. His mouth opened like he was about to speak. Instead, he squinted, nodded, and took a sip of coffee.
“Would you like some eggs?” she said cheerfully.
“Sure,” I said, still watching Dad, intrigued despite my bleariness. He pulled his paper back up, walling himself off.
“How are you feeling?” she said, her voice syrupy. “I know this news about Sophie is—”
I glared at her, wanting her to spit it out and get it over with. “Is what?” I said, and she seemed deflated. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Well, your father and I, we’d understand if you weren’t. We’re all struggling with the news, but I’m sure it’s particularly difficult for you.”
Bonnie’s over-solicitous treatment of me must be motivated by her endless desire to please Dad. She adores him, and I suspect she fears he might throw her over one day and move on to someone prettier and more sophisticated. I never want to be trapped like she is, afraid of being cast away. I pity her, but this dynamic gives me leverage.
She handed me a plate of fluffy eggs and buttered toast. “Well, if there’s anything I can do. Maybe your favorite meal tonight? Rarebit on toast?” she said, her lips quivering. “We love you, dear.”
“That’d be nice,” I said and took the plate.
“Carl, do you want some eggs?”
“No, no, thank you,” he muttered.
She turned to do the dishes.
He fidgeted with the paper and folded it closed. His gaze lingered on a landscape of the San Francisco Bay on the wall across from us; the bright blue of the water was intense in the morning sun. He was probably processing the news about Sophie. He finds her flighty and impractical, but he loves her—and I know he feels indebted to her for her support during the early days after my mother died. He took a measured sip of coffee and cleared his throat. He always struggles to say what he feels. When he told me about his engagement to Bonnie, he couldn’t glue two words together—a seasoned JAG!
“Philippa,” he said grimly.
“Yes?”
He studied me. Something was bothering him.
“What is it?” I said, nudging him along.
“The young man has been found. Your classmate.”
“Cleve?” I said. “What happened? Is he okay?”
His posture stiffened. “No, Philippa,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s dead.”
Before I said, “What?” I felt a catch in my throat—a glob of messy emotion. I remembered Cleve sitting on the school steps rattling off the scientific names for lobster parts. I remembered his momentary exuberance and the tenderness that I’d felt toward him when he stuttered. But later, practically frothing at the mouth, he’d attacked us. I’d wanted to hurt him—and I’d struck him, which felt good. The reverberation still echoed in my arm bones. How should I feel now? Sad? Horrified? Even guilty? No, not guilty.
“It’s in the Post,” Dad said softly. “I’m sorry.”
His grip tightened on the folded paper, crinkling it. I reached across the table and held out my hand for it, but he didn’t move.
“Dad,” I said in almost a whine. “Please.”
He relinquished it. “I suppose you should read about it now rather than hear about it at school.”
The paper had printed Cleve’s school portrait. He had carefully oiled and combed blond hair, distant eyes, and a fixed smile. Beside the photo, it read: “WASHINGTON, DC—Boy found dead on Sunday has been identified as seventeen-year-old Cleveland Closs of Capitol Hill. He was reported missing by his parents, Mr. Howard and Elaine Closs, on Friday morning. Lunchtime picnickers Rody James and Linda Wells discovered the body on the bank of the Anacostia River, just below the Sousa Bridge on the District side. Foul play suspected.”
I scanned the article.
The Wells woman said, “When I first saw him, I thought he must be sunning after a swim. For heaven’s sake, I thought, it’s October, and he’s shirtless!”
An armchair detective, Rody James said, “He must’ve washed up from the river. He had something on his arm, writing, but I couldn’t make it out.”
E. G. Thomas of the Washington Post described him as a senior at Eastern High School, who “planned on attending college and studying to be a doctor.” A doctor? That sounded wrong—a wish his parents had, perhaps, but not him. The article also mentioned his grandmother, local socialite Mrs. Moira Closs of Chevy Chase, the wife of the late Mr. Cleveland Closs, owner of Capitol City Hardware, a regional chain. Cleve was the grandson of an important person.
“Phil,” Dad said, touching my arm, “are you okay?”
I recoiled from him, my head spinning. “Excuse me,” I said, pushing away from the table, “I need to…” and then I stood and left the room.
* * *
As I’m writing this, I’m trying to imagine Cleve lying there in the grass and mud. Not to be morbid, but just to find a way to believe it. I close my eyes, and I can hear the lapping of the river, the traffic behind me, and the gulls swooping by. I can smell the earthy, squishy shoreline sod. I look out, then down, and his pale body shimmers past me like a few frames of a filmstrip, like something I once saw in a tabloid rag and quickly turned the page. The colorless sunlight briefly shines on his damp skin before a cloud passes overhead—or is it before the police cast their long shadows over him? He’s there, then not there. But I can’t imagine his lifeless face. It’s beyond me. I just see him after I struck him with the iron slat or after his tussle with Miss Martins. His face was hectic and perplexed and furious, but very alive, its heavy-lidded gaze challenging me, taunting me.
JUDY, OCTOBER 25, 1948
Eavesdropping is a bad habit, or so I’ve been told. I can’t help it. It’s how I turn enmity into entertainment. As I spy through cracked doors and around corners, B and E transform from my bitter stewards into dreary characters from a Eugene O’Neill tragedy, “Long Day’s Journey into Cocktail Hour” or “The Iceman Stumbleth.” They seem to drift around freezing intermittently, each tableaux depicting a big emotion: “Rage” (gritted teeth, balled fists, sweaty forehead) or “Melancholy” (drooped shoulders, empty tumbler in hand, lips moving soundlessly) or “Pity” (one parent staring queerly at the other who is staring at nothing). This morning, I leaned on the frame of the kitchen door and witnessed Bart read to Edith the Post article about Cleve.
“Dear God,” she said after he finished. “Where he was found, down by the river… Could it be another victim?” With the newspaper spread out in front of him, Bart sat there, petrified and mute. Hovering over his shoulder, her fussy Limoges coffee pot still in hand, Edith scanned the article again, as if she was unable to
digest its contents the first go-around. “The Closs boy,” she said, setting the pot down with a clunk, forgetting to finish filling Bart’s cup. “Not only a child but a grandchild of a prominent citizen. You must reach out to Moira. This is terrible.”
“It brings it all back,” Bart said. “Oh, Christ.”
“Yes,” Edith said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “But it’s an opportunity. Perhaps we can prove it this time.”
“That bit about the writing on the body,” Bart said. “It sounds like Bogdan. God help the Closses if he defiled their boy the way he…” He bowed his head, unable to go on.
“We should go to the police,” Edith said. “Today.”
Right then, the doorbell rang. They looked up and caught me observing them, a little unnerved I’d been snooping on their private moment. I wanted to say something encouraging; then I wanted to say something biting. I did neither. I just went to the door.
To be honest, I don’t know what to make of B and E. When I was younger, they inflicted Jackie on me day-in and day-out. Edith forced me into the mold of a dead girl, a prissy princess in velvet hair bows, white stockings, and patent leather Mary Janes. It was a nightmare trying to live up to her, but far worse was trying to be her in the conditional tense: Who might’ve she been? A flute player? A calligraphist? A Francophile? A flirt? A showboat? A pleaser? Always a pleaser. Still, during all of it, even when it was utterly humiliating, even when I imagined shoving B and E down the staircase or setting the house on fire, I couldn’t bring myself to hate them outright. At times, I wanted to—and perhaps I even did—but it would pass into something stranger: revulsion. Now, I just want to get the hell out of this house, escape this suffocating cocoon, and become someone else, no longer a Peabody.
The Savage Kind Page 11
