The City Below

by James Carroll

"I can't speak for Terry now, but back then ... he was hard, but he thought he was soft. Nick is just the opposite. Soft, but he thinks he's hard. So do a lot of other people—think Nick's hard, I mean."

  "The kids in your garage."

  "For some."

  "I don't think of Terry as hard."

  "He was supposed to be a priest," Didi said.

  "I know."

  "Oh, so he did tell you."

  "Some of it."

  "Not about the cardinal and Humanae Vitae?"

  "The cardinal and what?"

  Didi smiled. "You're not a Catholic."

  "I was raised Episcopalian."

  "The Tory party at prayer." Didi smiled.

  Then Joan did too. "We believe in one God—at most."

  "And you know about art." Didi glanced at the painting above the fireplace. "'Nabis,' you said."

  "Yes. It's the Hebrew word for 'prophet."'

  "Profit? Like in money?"

  "Like in Jeremiah."

  Didi laughed. "It should be money for what that dealer charged. I didn't want the thing that bad, but Nick insisted." She swallowed some wine, then reached to a silver box for a cigarette. She offered it to Joan, who accepted and produced her gold lighter from her purse. Didi tapped her cigarette on the table, like a man, then leaned across for a light. When she exhaled, leaning back, she said, "They were Jews too."

  "Who?"

  "The art dealers."

  "The Voses? They aren't Jewish."

  "They acted like it Real Jews about that price." Didi stared at Joan as if daring her to express her disapproval. But Joan was impassive. Didi made a show then of the pleasure she took in her cigarette. "You know, they make you quit the weed now when you're pregnant As if being an elephant wasn't bad enough."

  "You quit smoking while you were pregnant?"

  "The last one, yes. As if that will make Jerry perfect. When we started out, I assumed all our kids would be perfect," Didi actually stopped to inhale and blow a set of smoke rings, one small circle penetrating a larger pair. "But they aren't, of course," she added, with no need to mention Jackie by name. Looking directly at Joan, she said, "Our children are not perfect because I'm not perfect, and neither is Nick."

  To back away, Joan said, "Well, your house certainly is. Your home is beautiful."

  "Thank you."

  "Your husband is a florist?"

  Didi laughed. "Jesus, why don't you be direct or something. I mean, come right out and ask how much he makes a year, how we can afford the Kitchen Aid or my closetful of Ultrasuede or the"—she threw a hand toward the painting—"Manseau."

  "That wasn't what I meant at all. I was thinking of the flowers everywhere, which are so beautiful. That was my point."

  Didi took an exceptionally deliberate sip of her wine. "Well, I misunderstood, then. But I won't say I'm sorry. Yes, he if a florist. But more to the point of all this"—she looked around the room, but with a hint of weariness, as if she knew now that the sum of beautiful things is not happiness—"Nick is an importer. We still run the shop on the corner, in his old house, and there are other Kerry Bouquets around town, but mostly now it's Kerry Imports, bulbs from Holland and cut flowers too, wholesale distribution all over New England, that sort of thing." There was an exasperation in Didi's answer, as if she'd had to justify their affluence often.

  All at once Joan's question wasn't about Terry's brother, but about this woman, whose self-assertion was the last thing Joan expected. "You," she said, "I'd love to know more about you."

  "So would I," Squire said, breezing into the room. "Didi is the riddle of Bunker Hill." He circled the table to stand by his wife, touching her cheek with the back of his fingers. Didi inclined her face ever so slightly toward him.

  "What's the riddle?" Joan asked.

  "How can she still be so beautiful after all I've dragged her through?"

  Didi slapped Squire's thigh, a friendly swat. "You can't kid a kidder, big guy," she said, rising. "The leg of lamb is butterflied, ready for the grill. Get the fire going, will you?"

  Didi left the dining room with her glass. Instead of following, Squire reached for a cigarette. He spied Joan's lighter. "May I?"

  "Certainly." She picked it up and handed it to him.

  After using it, he studied the lighter appreciatively. "Someone gave this to you."

  "Yes." Joan was surprised to feel warmth in her cheeks, and she was sure from the intent way he looked at her that he saw them redden.

  "Terry?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think so. It's nice," he said, and he held it out to her. When he put the lighter in her hand, his fingers rested in her palm for a long second. And Joan felt the heat in her face climb to her ears.

  She looked down to put the lighter back into her purse.

  "If you don't mind my saying so, I never pictured the woman with Terry as so glamorous."

  Joan looked up. "Don't be fooled by my false eyelashes, Nick."

  "Call me Squire. Everyone calls me Squire."

  "Not Terry."

  "Terry's our straight arrow. No curves in Terry. As I am sure you know. Nothing warped. Nothing bent."

  Joan recognized the invitation to join in the condescension, to say something disloyal. She never would. But she couldn't help thinking, Curves make a man interesting, and yes, my husband lacks them utterly.

  Squire brought his face down toward her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. She resisted the impulse to back away, just to see what he was doing. If he could play, so could she.

  He said, "Your eyelashes are real." And then he made no effort to disguise it when he dropped his gaze to her breasts: Also real. He straightened. "I have to start a fire," he said, and walked off.

  What a jerk, she thought. But when she brought her cigarette to her mouth, her hand shook.

  ***

  At dinner all was chaos for as long as the children remained. Jackie in particular kept things stirred up with loud demands, punctuated by "goddamnit"s and china-rattling blows to the table.

  Finally Teresa herded the children away, leaving the adults. Didi and Squire sat at opposite ends of the long table, Joan and Terry faced each other on the sides. All smoked cigarettes and sipped coffee.

  "Didi, that was great," Joan said. "I loved the salad especially."

  "Julia Child. I never miss her."

  Joan stared, uncomprehending.

  "On television."

  "Oh." Joan glanced across at Terry. By now everything seemed wrong, and even a compliment was doomed to underscore how different they were.

  Terry was rimming his cigarette in the ashtray. Joan sensed his sadness.

  Didi piped up, "So tell us about you."

  Her interest seemed genuine, but Joan could not think what to say.

  Didi supplied, "Your father's a diplomat?"

  "Foreign Service, yes."

  "So you grew up everywhere. That must have been exciting."

  "He has served in Washington a lot, so we kept our ties."

  "In Virginia."

  "Yes."

  Squire asked, "Did they approve?"

  Joan and Terry exchanged a look before Terry burst out laughing. "Christ, Nick, why not ask something personal?"

  "Approve of Terry, you mean?" Joan asked steadily.

  "Yes," Squire answered. "Your marriage to Terry. Did your parents approve?"

  "Of course they did. Why wouldn't they? He's not black."

  Squire, still with that smile, said, "Given your rebellious history, you mean?"

  "Given the modern era."

  "So they were at your wedding?" Didi asked.

  "No. They were in San José. We decided not to wait." Joan looked at Terry. "Right?"

  "Right."

  "San Jose, California?" Didi asked.

  "Costa Rica. Where my dad is posted."

  "Oh." Didi grimaced. "What an ignoramus—or is it ignorama" She took a hefty swallow of wine, then looked out the window. "I wonder if it'll rain ag
ain?"

  A silence fell, and no one broke it for such a long time that it became a powerful revelation of their condition. Joan was desperate to think of something to say, but she couldn't.

  When Squire spoke, it did not surprise her, when she brought her eyes up, that he was looking right at her. Which was doubly strange, given what he'd said.

  "What?" Joan said. "I'm sorry, what?"

  "I just wondered what you'll tell the senator." Only then did he bring his eyes around to Terry. "Your briefing on your reconnaissance trip to Charlestown."

  "That's not what this is, Nick. You invited us, remember?"

  "But isn't that your job now? Isn't that why Kennedy—?"

  Terry abruptly raised his hand, cutting his brother off. "Don't push this, Nick."

  "But what are you going to tell him?"

  "Maybe that it looks like lynching is making a comeback What next, burning crosses?"

  "Lynching?" Squire said. "Hanging a straw dummy beats hanging a person." He looked over at Joan. "Wouldn't you say? Where in Virginia are you from, Joan, anyway?"

  "What prompts the question, Nick? Lynching?" Joan smashed her cigarette.

  "I guess so, yes."

  Determined to keep things light, Joan turned to Didi. "Does he ask whatever pops into his mind?"

  Didi nodded, her wine glass hooked in the bridge of her hands. She seemed tipsy now, and exhausted. She said, "He's bad."

  "Lynchburg," Squire said. "Didn't I hear someplace you're from Lynchburg?"

  "In point of fact, Warren ton."

  "But near Lynchburg, right? Horse country? FFV and all that?"

  Joan's look toward Terry said, Is that what you tell him?

  But Terry was watching the smoke curl around the tip of his cigarette. He said quietly, "I want the effigy down, Nick"

  "Hey, Terry, it's not my thing. I agree it's ugly, but..."

  "You're saying it was the wiseguys who lynched the thing, not you?"

  "Yes. That is what I'm saying."

  "How'd they get my suit, then? They've got the judge in my suit."

  Joan blurted, "Your suit?"

  "Yes, my suit."

  Squire opened his hands. "It must have been in the boxes, in the garage."

  "Right Sure. I guess this has been reconnaissance, Nick And what I'll report is that it's worse over here than they think."

  "Good, Terry. You tell them that And don't forget, when you tell them about the kids lost in the firing range, remember this—some of them are your nieces and nephews."

  "I remember."

  "Well, you don't act like it."

  Terry pushed away from the table.

  Joan felt embarrassed for him, the defeat she saw in his face.

  "We'd better be going," he said. He reached to Didi. She met his hand with hers. "Thanks, Didi. This was great."

  "You're coming back though, right?"

  "Yes. Sure, Didi." Terry stood and crossed to her, to kiss her forehead. "Thanks for taking such good care of Ned."

  "Don't mention it, Charlie."

  Terry laughed at her use of his old nickname and kissed her again. She got up, but unsteadily.

  Squire stood, but he remained at the table as Joan, Terry, and Didi moved into the foyer.

  Joan turned back toward the dining room, remembering her lighter. She stopped in the threshold just as Nick, with his back to her, picked the lighter up. He studied it for a minute, then put it into his pocket.

  Joan felt the blood rush to her face once more, as if she herself had just been caught in an act of theft. The boldness of the man.

  As he turned toward her, she looked away. She wanted to go right over and slap his face, but also, something made her skin tingle, like dirty movies had at frat house parties. She moved into the foyer again.

  At the door, Nick and Terry shook hands stiffly. Then Nick faced Joan. "So anyway, welcome to Boston," he said. "Don't believe what you read." He kissed her cheek, but his left hand went to her waist, inside her jacket His finger found the hem of her sweater and, for an instant, rested on the bare skin of the curve above her hip.

  "What?" she blurted, meaning, You touched me there?

  His eyes twinkled. "I said, Your eyelashes, I'd swear they're real."

  Joan stared at him. You're really his brother? You're really going to keep my gold lighter?

  By not making an issue of the theft, she realized suddenly that she was his accessory, and then she thought, My God, he wanted me to see him take it. He wanted to see what I would do. She took Terry's arm, holding on to him all the way down the stairs. On the sidewalk, she leaned against him and whispered, "Get me out of here."

  "Not yet," he said. "Not just yet."

  At the car, they pushed the canvas top back. Terry said, "You drive. Let it coast back, with me."

  Terry walked down the hill to the carriage house. The large double doors were still closed, but he could hear the boys inside. Joan edged the car toward the curb cut, as if they'd planned it.

  He hopped onto the green hood and stretched to his full height, just able to reach the black pretend corpse. He pulled it loose, then turned and dropped the lifeless dummy into the car, behind the seats.

  Joan revved the engine, wanting out. But Terry remained on the hood, looking across at the large sign again: Rally at City Hall. Monday at 11. Resist! Yes, he thought, resist.

  He hopped down and got in. Joan popped the clutch and the car shot forward. But just as abruptly, she had to hit the brakes, because right in their path at the crest of the hill stood Squire.

  He wore that smile of his.

  She thought, Now here comes my lighter.

  But no. He was holding the plant sheathed in a cone of lavender paper. He moved quickly toward them, to Joan's side of the car. "We forgot to give you your presents. This is especially for you, Joan." He had unpinned the paper and was now folding it back. The plant featured a graceful set of leafy stalks a foot high, out of the center of which had sprouted a stunning pair of purple-veined black orchids. It was like the plant in Gramps's room, only more beautiful. The flower's liplike petals opened around deep red wounds from which the stigma-tipped ovary styles protruded. Other petals, hoods, overlapped the pistils. "I grew it for you."

  The flower shimmered before her. She felt the color coming into her face again, that color. Tiny beads of water glistened on the petals. The plant seemed to move toward her slightly, because of him.

  The colors went, now that she really looked, from deep red to purple to cobalt, never quite—like his clothing—all the way to black. The black feces of the frightened children she had seen on television passed through her, and then these faces, here. The boys at the high school, the drunks in their mammoth, crude car, the glum Marshals in the grotto of their carriage house. All their disappointment and all their fear went through her. On impulse she said, "Did you ever hear of Saint Roch?"

  "What?"

  "A dark holy man pictured in medieval chapels. From his wooden staff a black flower miraculously sprouted."

  "Like this?" Squire brightened.

  "The flower was black because Saint Roch nursed victims of the plague."

  "Jesus," Squire said, "the plague!" But he was grinning. He looked for Terry's eye: What's with this broad? But Terry was staring at his own hands.

  Squire offered the plant again. "It's rare. Not miraculous, maybe, but rare. The black milium. Soil moist, but never wet. A cool room, but lots of light. Okay?" He lowered the plant to her hands. Even the paper wrapping the pot, once her fingers touched it, seemed delicate. He had not used the kitsch foil wrapping she associated with cheap florists.

  But she corrected herself. That he was a cheap florist was her former prejudice. He was anything but. "Thank you," she said.

  He bowed. Then he held up a small envelope. He opened it and produced a small flower. It was green and white, delicate, lovely. "Remember these?" he said to Terry, reaching across. "I make them now."

  Terry took it numbly. A shamroc
k boutonniere, pin and all. Squire tossed his head at the crushed black heap in the seat well. "I'm sorry about that."

  "Right," Terry said. He held up the shamrock. "Thanks, Nick." And to Joan, "Let's go."

  Joan held the orchid toward Terry. His distaste was undisguised, but she gave him no choice. He took it onto his lap. She put the car in gear, then hit the gas, thinking, Still no gold lighter.

  Without Terry's having to tell her, she knew to take the next left.

  "And left again, at the corner," he said as they approached Main.

  "I know." She sped into City Square, past the precinct house, toward the bridge across the river that marked the Charlestown boundary.

  "Stop," he said. "Stop here!"

  She did, just short of the bridge. Ahead, on the left, was the congested Italian neighborhood, yet another hill, another spire. But he pointed the other way, toward North Station. "That's Boston Garden. I've told you about it, where Bright lost his eye." He held up the orchid. "An earlier gift from the fabulous Doyle brothers."

  He got out of the car, put the orchid on the pavement, and took the dummy out of the well, spreading it on the back of the car. Joan got out and came around beside him. He unfastened the buttons of the out-of-fashion black suit, its narrow lapels and cuffed trousers. He methodically removed the stuffing from the corpse, letting the rags and bunched newspapers fly in the wind. Then he pinned the shamrock to the lapel of the suit. He folded the jacket and rolled the trousers around the shirt cardboard on which someone had written the obscene epitaph. He stood up with the bundled suit.

  Joan slipped a hand inside his arm. "I can't believe they used a suit of yours."

  "Fuck the judge. Fuck Charlie."

  "Why did they call you that?"

  "An old nickname."

  "Because of Charlestown?"

  "Because of this," he indicated the suit. "Charlie Chaplin. You wouldn't get it There's a lot you wouldn't get."

  "Oh, Terry." She squeezed his arm, rested her head against him.

  "Joan, I..."

  Each wanted to find the other. But despite the way their bodies pressed together, there was a sea between them. He pulled away, turning to heave the suit into the filthy harbor water, toward Old Ironsides. They watched it slowly sink in sewage. The feeling was, they watched him sink.

  His eyes drifted up to the rigging of the ancient ship, all those crosses, and then to the white spire of Paul Revere's church. When he looked, finally, at Joan, his sadness had been replaced by anger. "Saint Roch? Jesus Christ, you're telling him about some fucking saint? Saint Roch?"