New Jerusalem News

by John Enright

  “Tangled webs.” Dominick’s stomach growled. He had not eaten since breakfast.

  “Right,” Starks said. “I’ll warm something up. Leftover lamb stew sound alright?” Starks headed off to the kitchen. “There’s more news, but it will keep. Somehow I get the impression you don’t want to hear it.”

  Dominick picked up the tray with the empty glasses and shaker and followed Starks into the kitchen. “It’s not that I don’t want to hear it. It’s just that I thought I had escaped it all.”

  “All what?”

  “All the craziness. I don’t know.”

  “You’ll never escape that. By the way, I’ve cleared off a shelf in the fridge for you, and there are towels in your room. You can find the washer and dryer. There are no secrets there. You’ll probably need them. We do recycle. Figure it out. There’s a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge door. Open it for us, will you? The corkscrew is in the second drawer there. Have you ever noticed how most American kitchens are so predictable? I mean where people put things. Tomorrow we’ll see what has happened to Emma. See? You knew just where the wine glasses would be, and somewhere in the fridge is a jar of mint jelly.”

  Dominick didn’t mention that he probably knew strangers’ kitchens better than anyone, and that only the surprises held any meaning. In Starks’s kitchen, for instance, all the sharp knives were hidden somewhere. Over supper Starks quizzed him about his trip, and they enjoyed some laughs at the expense of their fellow Americans. Dominick skipped over his visit to Alexandria and his drive past his mother’s house. Nothing entertaining there. Starks’s final words before retiring were a warning—that he and only he could load and run the dishwasher.

  Emma was out, on her own recognizance. The district court judge had not liked the feds picking her up on the strength of what was, after all, an old local warrant. “Overreaching,” the judge called it. A hearing date was set, and he ordered her released, telling the feds to get their own warrant from their own court if they chose to charge her with something. “Don’t try your dragnets in my district,” he told them. Starks found this out through a couple of phone calls to friends at the courthouse. They were at his museum office. Starks had sent Constance off on an all-day errand to the state archives.

  “This is in line with the other news I’ve been hearing,” Starks said. “A local judge telling the feds to go stuff it. There’s some sort of local uprising going on, especially in Old Grofton. I guess the national news coverage forced folks to pay more attention. There have been letters to the editor and callers to talk radio shows criticizing the Old Grofton mayor and their congressman for backing the Hercules project. I get the feeling that few people up there ever really liked the project, but no one was saying so out of politeness or resignation or something. It was always presented as a done deal until Bay Savers started asking questions.

  “Some ultraright group calling themselves Christians for American Values or Americans for Christian Values or something like that has started a drive for signatures on a petition opposing the LNG plant as part of an Islamic plot to take over the government and subvert the culture, and according to the news anti-LNG and anti-Hercules graffiti has been springing up all over the city.”

  “Graffiti?”

  “Some Reverend down in that neighborhood is planning a protest march.”

  “Too bad Atticus isn’t around to see it taking off,” Dominick said.

  “I don’t think it has much to do with the environment or saving the bay. It’s just a new enemy.”

  “Do we care?”

  While at Starks’s office Dominick borrowed some time on Starks’s computer to check his e-mail. It had been a month. There was nothing much there, a few queries from his accountant to answer about taxes and expenditures. Before signing off he remembered to check his Lord Witherspoon address. There was just one message there, from Angelica, the only person who knew that address:

  Dear Dominick, I don’t know where you are right now. Except for the times when I’ve been in the same room with you that’s been true as long as I’ve known you. The last I saw of you was your back walking out of my parents’ house. Like the Lone Ranger or something, after nursing Dad through the flu and buying them those space heaters.

  Daddy died four days ago. I thought I’d let you know. A heart attack, the doctors said. I wasn’t there. I had to come back to work in Boston. I had him cremated. We had no ceremony.

  You know I do not care if you are not lord somebody. What matters now is that you were Daddy’s friend. He liked you. And I miss you. Miss someone to talk to about Daddy and what was going on before he died. You were right I do not know anything about what was going on with him.

  Please get back to me. I would love to meet and talk. I need someone to hold me.

  XO, Angelica.

  Dominick replied: “My condolences on your father. Where is your mother?” Then he paused. There wasn’t much he wanted to say. Then for some reason he broke one of the houseguest rules and gave her John Starks’s home number—which he remembered because it had three zeros, his favorite digit, in it—and told her he could get a message there if he got back on island. He sent his reply and immediately regretted it.

  “John, I have just made a mistake,” Dominick said, signing off.

  Starks was at his usual workstation at the library counter. “What’s that?”

  “I just gave out your home phone number to get personal messages. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “To whom?”

  “Atticus’s daughter. She seemed lonely.”

  “Gotten laid recently, Dominick? Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it. You’ll just have to tell me all about her if she does call. Price to pay.”

  The next day Starks was off to a conference in Albany, and Dominick had the carriage house apartment all to himself for five days. He had plenty to read, and the days were getting longer and warmer. The snow was gone from everywhere the sun could reach, but the country was still stark, dead and monochromatic. Dominick explored the neighborhood and the grounds of Broadmoor. He took his camera with him. In a kitchen drawer he found some keys and he tried them on the locks of the big house. One of them worked in the bolt lock on a side door. He explored the house as well, taking photographs of shadows. There was still some furniture in the rooms—pieces too large to move or that would have been out of place in any other house. In one of the turrets there was a wide window seat that caught the full afternoon sun, the only warm spot in the otherwise glacial rooms. He took to reading there.

  The phone never rang. Starks had told him that the landline was only still there because he was too lazy to have it disconnected. It was all cell phones now. There was an answering machine, as vestigial as the instrument it was attached to. On the third day, when Dominick returned to Starks’s apartment around sunset, a red light on the answering machine was flashing. It was a message from Angelica: “This is a message for Dominick. I’ll be arriving this Saturday, the twelfth, staying at the Oswald’s on Washington. He knows who this is.”

  Starks was scheduled to return on Saturday. Maybe he would like his home to himself for a day. So, Saturday morning Dominick parked his car in a lot near the docks and caught the midday ferry out to the island. It was like an old commute he thought he would never repeat. He stopped at the deli for a roast beef sandwich and to watch the young waitresses. The one who had reminded him of Linda wasn’t there. He was in his Lord Witherspoon wardrobe today. He left an overlarge tip. Washington Street was just a few blocks away and only two blocks long. The sign was small and tasteful, carved in wood above the porch steps, Oswald’s Bed & Breakfast. At the curb was a silver Camry with Massachusetts plates that Dominick had seen before in Atticus’s driveway.

  They had drinks at the fancy restaurant overlooking the bay. Midafternoon, off season; they were the only patrons. Dominick sipped a Pinot Grigio and listened. In a way it was refreshing, in that Angelica wanted to know nothing about him. There were no questions about where he
had been, where he was staying, how he was doing. It was all about her. She was hurting. She had let her dad slip away, as if he were going to live forever. The last time they had talked they fought. Her mother hated her. The feds were threatening to take the house. The people she was working for were very image conscious; they were not thrilled about her father dying in custody, about to be indicted by a federal grand jury. His life insurance was all in Lydia’s name. Her husband was no help or support at all.

  “What’s his name?” Dominick asked.

  “Whose?”

  “Your husband. You’ve never mentioned him before,”

  “Dexter. His name is Dexter. That’s not important.”

  “Is he gay? Your father thought he was gay.”

  “Dex’s sexual orientation is not an issue here. Daddy never liked him.”

  “Just curious. Why would you marry someone gay?”

  “This is not about my husband or my marriage. Oh, Dominick, don’t be mean to me. Please. I came all this way on the hope you would be here for me, and here you are, like the Lone Ranger again. Help me, please. Help me keep the house.”

  “How?”

  “By proving Daddy wasn’t part of any terrorist plot, that the house wasn’t where the terrorists met and planned and kept their weapons.”

  “Who says it was?”

  “Those agents, the ones that kept hounding him.”

  “The FBI?”

  “No, not them so much, the other ones, that pair from Homeland Security.”

  “I don’t know what I could do, Angelica. They have no reason to believe anything I could tell them.”

  “But you know Daddy wasn’t one of those people, whoever they are.”

  “What I know doesn’t mean anything, dear. Drink up.” Dominick ordered another bottle of wine and a dozen oysters on the half shell. “I think what you need is a good lawyer. I hate to say it, but Atticus’s dying may have been the best gift he could have given you. They can’t indict a dead man, so they may not be able to seize his property either. But it’s a new law and all on the government’s side. You need a pro, not an amateur like me.”

  They shared a second dozen oysters and finished the second bottle of wine. Angelica mellowed. She shed some real tears for her father, and they toasted him.

  “You remind me of him, you know,” she said. “So sure of yourself, so masculine that way.”

  “You flatter me,” Dominick said. “All I am sure about is that I don’t know the answers.”

  On the way to her car in the parking lot Angelica took Dominick’s arm. “I believe you have gotten me a little bit tipsy, Dom. Would you mind driving?”

  Back at the bed and breakfast on Washington Street, Dominick went with Angelica up to her room. There was a dance she had started that they would see through to the end. They weren’t exactly strangers. It was a slow dance. Neither of them was in a hurry. There was no need for words. They lingered over kisses. Caresses lasted until they became familiar. Clothes were leisurely shed. It was like they had been lovers a long time. Not until he entered her, on top of her, her thighs pressed back against her breasts, her hands guiding him into her, did she call out. “Oh yes. Oh lord, lord, yes. All of it, give me all of it. Oh lord, yes, fuck me.”

  Chapter 23

  It was not pleasant. It was not pleasant at all. It was the sort of scene that Dominick had customized his life to avoid. There were the three of them. Two of them basically out of control as far he could judge, and the third now with her earphones in listening to her iPod. If it had been three men perhaps it could be worse. It would have gotten physical. Punches would have been thrown, furniture broken, maybe even concealed weapons put to their intended use. It was just Angelica and Lydia and Ms. Arnold, but all three of them were between him and the front door exit.

  Dominick knew when he came that it was a mistake. He had missed the last ferry off the island the night before and had spent the night in Angelica’s room at the bed and breakfast on Washington. Over another bottle of wine she had told him her life story according to Angelica—tomboy, drugs, abortion, a stint in New Zealand with a Kiwi boyfriend. Her sister Rey was the favorite, Daddy’s little girl and her mother’s perfect little baby doll. Then Angelica went to bed and slept soundly, leaving half the queen size bed for Dominick. At some point in the night she curled up spoon style against him and purred.

  In the morning they had the breakfast part of the bed and breakfast. Angelica was headed back to Boston. She had wanted to check on the house—she refused to call it Mt. Sinai—but discovered she hadn’t the stomach for it. Dominick went back with her on the midday boat. On deck she insisted on holding his hand—not the way old couples do, but the way teenagers do when they are dating. She chatted about his coming to Boston, the things they could do, like the amphibious Duck ride around the harbor. She had never done that. They could go to museums, and she knew this great little restaurant in Little Italy. It was not necessary for Dominick to say anything.

  It wasn’t until they were driving off the ferry that Angelica mentioned Lydia. “I have to go see her,” she said. “She’s staying at that Ms. Arnold’s place. Do you know where that is? I can never find it.”

  “I will show you where it is, but you can never find a parking place in that neighborhood, and I’m not going in. The last time I was there Ms. Arnold threw me out, and I think she was right.”

  “Oh, Dominick, help me out here. You know that mother and I don’t communicate that well. With you there things would go better, I just know they would. She likes you. Maybe with you there she won’t act up. You know, she was asking for you, as Lord Witherspoon. She was sure that the feds had killed you, too. She kept saying, ‘I saw it coming. I saw it coming.’”

  “She thinks the feds killed Atticus? Turn left here, up the hill.”

  “Sometimes she thinks they’re just hiding him away in solitary confinement somewhere.”

  “Another left. Keep your eye out for a place to park. What’s going to happen to Lydia?”

  “I’m trying to get her to go to London and stay with her favorite daughter, but mother doesn’t have a current passport. Mother doesn’t even have a current driver’s license.”

  “Go around the block. You can only take left turns in here. That reminds me, did she and Ms. Arnold make their court date in Boston?”

  “Court date? What court date! For what?”

  “They didn’t tell you? I had to go bail them out for shoplifting. Wait. That person is pulling out. You’re only a block away, take it.”

  “At least stop in and let mother know that you are still alive.”

  “But I’m not Lord Witherspoon anymore. That’s someone else now.”

  Angelica parked her car, and they were walking back to the cross street. She grabbed his arm. “Dominick, sweetheart, just do this one little thing for me and I’ll let you go again. I can’t stand that woman Ms. Arnold. It’s like making me go to the dentist all by myself. Don’t be mean to me.” She would not let go. She dragged him up to the steps of Ms. Arnold’s house. He would have had to hit her to make her let go. There was no avoiding it. Angelica was still attached to him when she raised and lowered the front door knocker.

  Ms. Arnold answered the door. She was carrying a large, seemingly comatose gray cat.

  “Hello, Martha. I’m here to see mother,” Angelica said.

  “Why didn’t you call first? You know you are supposed to call first.”

  “I did call yesterday when I got in. I talked with mother.”

  “You have to talk with me, not her. I see you have brought trouble.”

  “You know Dominick. He came along to say hello to mother. Is she here?”

  “Where else would she be? This gentleman is not welcome here.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll just be going,” Dominick said, pulling his arm away from Angelica’s grip. “Good day, Ms. Arnold, Angelica.”

  “Nick? Is that you Nick?” It was Lydia’s voice coming from somewhere behind M
s. Arnold. “You’ve escaped! Is Atticus with you?” Lydia came up from behind Ms. Arnold and, with a firm hand on her shoulder, pushed her aside.

  “Hello, Lydia,” Dominick said. “Yes, it’s me, Nick and, no, Atticus isn’t with me. Atticus is dead. And I have to go now.”

  “But you just got here,” Lydia said. “What are you doing with her? Wait here. I’ll get my coat and we can go.” Lydia turned and went back into the house. “We’ll buy some chocolates and take the ferry ride again.” Her voice trailed off down the hall.

  “Lydia, no. You are not going with him,” Ms. Arnold said as she turned to follow her.

  “Mother!” Angelica said, following them.

  Dominick retreated back down the steps, shaking his head. Time to avaunt. He was on the sidewalk and headed away when Lydia came rushing out the door. She was wearing her mink coat and carrying the gray cat by the scruff of its neck. Ms. Arnold was not far behind her.

  “Here, kitty, you’re free, too,” Lydia said and she flung the cat up into the air. It did not land well. It didn’t have the air time to right itself. It bounced off the railing and off the porch like a hairy bag of random objects. Ms. Arnold let out a sound like the scream equivalent of a stifled yawn. Lydia bounded up to Dominick and took his arm. “You’d like a drink, wouldn’t you, Nick. Let’s go find you a drink. I’ll pay. Oh, darn. I’ve forgotten my purse. Wait just a sec.” And Lydia bounded back up the steps into the house, brushing past her daughter standing in the doorway. “Out of my way,” she said.

  Ms. Arnold was already off the steps, down out of sight beside the porch. Purely out of morbid curiosity, Dominick found himself standing beside her, looking down at the twitching pile of gray fur.

  “Oh, do something, do something,” Ms. Arnold said. “This is all your fault after all.”

  Dominick couldn’t see any blood. Maybe the cat was just stunned. He bent over and reached down, but the cat still had enough life in it to try and bite him. There was a snow shovel leaning against a corner of the porch. Dominick managed to get the cat onto the shovel and he carried it on that, at a safe distance, up the steps and into the house. Ms. Arnold was right behind him. “To the kitchen,” she said.