The Devil's Madonna

by Sharon Potts

  A cardboard picture the size of a baseball card fell out from between the magazines. An advertisement? But no. It appeared to be a publicity picture of a beautiful young woman with curly blonde hair. She wore a bonnet with ribbons and a large bow. The picture was artificially colorized and the woman’s eyes were too blue, her cheeks and lips too red. Leli Lenz was printed beneath the woman’s smiling face. Kali kept it out to examine later and put the magazines and newspapers back in the box.

  A sound coming from downstairs startled her. She stopped and listened, remembering her grandmother’s paranoia about someone breaking into the house. She heard only silence, then the creak of the old house settling itself.

  She released her breath and returned to her investigation. She opened another carton, remembering its contents from last time—several large fragments of folded fabric, as though someone had intended to make curtains or a bedspread. A bit of pink and lace was sticking out from between two layers of fabric. Kali eased it out. A child’s pinafore—pink with a lace collar. Just like the one Lillian had described this morning. This must have belonged to Kali’s mother.

  She sat down on the gritty wood floor, pressed her back against the wall, and held the dress against her face. She imagined her mother as a little girl. A cloud of dark hair, Lillian had said, and blue eyes. She liked to play at being an actress. Lillian had taught her how to curtsey.

  Kali inhaled the smell of cotton and a calmness swept over her. She would take the dress home, wash it, and put it away. If she gave birth to a girl, she would dress her in the pink pinafore. And she’d tell her all about how her grandmother, Kali’s mother, liked to play at being an actress. She would even teach her how to curtsey. Then she thought about the disturbing remark her grandmother had made earlier about her mother. She didn’t stand a chance. Against whom? Kali wondered again. Why would her mother have been threatened by anyone?

  She was roused by her cell phone ringing. Seth.

  “Hi,” she said. “Guess what I found.”

  “It’s been over an hour,” he said. “I was afraid something happened to you.”

  “I’m sorry. I got a little sidetracked. I—”

  Someone was knocking on the door at the bottom of the stairwell.

  Kali tensed. Who in the world?

  “Kali?” Neil called out. “Are you up here?”

  “Who’s that?” Seth said in her ear. “Who’s with you?”

  “Kali?” Neil called again. She could hear him climbing the stairs.

  “Is that the guy from next door?”

  “I’m—he—I was just—”

  “I see,” Seth said. Then the phone went silent.

  Neil came up the last few steps and stopped on the landing. His hair was damp, as though he’d just showered, and he’d changed into jeans and a button-down shirt.

  He looked at Kali’s face, the pile of fabric around her on the floor, the phone in her hand. “Shit. You were on with Seth?”

  She nodded.

  “He thought I’ve been up here with you?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she took another one.

  “I’m really sorry. Your car’s in the driveway. I rang the bell, but you didn’t answer. Then I noticed the front door was unlocked, so I came in to make sure everything was okay.”

  She’d left the door unlocked? She tried to remember. She’d been so disoriented and exhausted from the day at the hospital that she wasn’t functioning right.

  “I hope I haven’t made a mess of things for you and Seth.”

  “It’s fine. We’ll be fine. They’re keeping my grandmother for observation. She had a stroke.”

  “They told you that before I left.”

  “That’s right.” Apparently, she still wasn’t thinking clearly. Neil would know about her grandmother. He’d spent most of the afternoon and early evening with Kali at the hospital until she finally insisted he go home and take care of Gizmo.

  He sat down on the floor beside her. The lack of air-conditioning was starting to get to her.

  Neil looked through the doorway into the adjacent room where the folded cot was clearly visible. Was he remembering that other night? Opening the cot? Their sweaty bodies sticking to each other in the heat?

  “I’d ask if you’re okay,” he said, “but I know you’ll just say you’re fine. I also know you’re not.”

  Kali didn’t want to think about Neil sitting so close to her; the smell of soap and shampoo, just like the other time.

  He reached out. His bandaged hands touched the pink dress on her lap.

  Kali started, then relaxed. “It was my mother’s. My grandmother was just talking about how my mother used to wear it when she played at being an actress.”

  “That’s a nice memory.” He picked up the picture of the pretty woman that was lying on the floor near him. “A cigarette card?”

  “What do you mean? What’s a cigarette card?”

  “A trading card. Years ago, cigarette manufacturers used them to stiffen the cigarette packaging and advertise their brands. People collected them. Kind of like baseball cards with bubblegum. The cigarette cards were usually pictures of important figures—sports heroes, writers, actors, and actresses.” He examined it. “Who’s Leli Lenz?”

  “I have no idea. It was in one of the boxes.”

  “She resembles you.”

  Kali took the card from him and studied the face. “You think so? I don’t.” But she had an unsettled feeling, almost a longing, as she put the card next to her phone. Maybe there was a resemblance. But it was like reading your fortune. You could always interpret it the way you wanted to.

  “I’d better go,” she said, getting to her knees.

  She put the rest of the fabric back in the carton, closed it, and shoved it back against the wall. She reached over to pick up another carton.

  “Let me help you with that.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  But he was beside her again, smelling so good. He took the carton, stacked it, then got another one and placed it on top.

  He was quite a bit taller than she and she had to lean her head back to look at him. She was sweating. Her body felt swollen, prickly.

  And pregnant.

  “I need to go.” Then she picked up her cell phone and the cigarette card with the blonde, blue-eyed woman, and ran down the stairs.

  17

  It took Kali twenty-two minutes to make the drive home to Hollywood, a ride that usually took a half hour. She noticed Seth’s car missing as she pulled into the driveway of their 1950s ranch-style cottage. The smell of Chinese food hit her as soon as she opened the front door. She went into the small white kitchen. The light was on, the table set with placemats, dishes, and silverware. Three take-out containers were open on the table.

  Where was he? Did he really believe something was going on between her and Neil?

  Kali pulled out her cell and speed dialed Seth’s number. She heard his phone ringing at the other side of the house.

  Thank goodness. “Seth,” she called, hurrying toward the sound. “I’m so sorry.”

  She paused at the doorway to their bedroom. Seth’s phone was on the bed. She closed her own cell and the ringing stopped.

  He really was gone. Left his phone so she had no way of getting in touch with him. He’d never done this before. Maybe he just ran to the store for something. Or to his office.

  She dialed his law firm’s landline. After his voice mail message came on, she disconnected from the call.

  She went back to the kitchen, feeling sick to her stomach. She closed the take-out containers, put them in the refrigerator, then turned out the light and went to bed.

  She checked the clock on the nightstand when she heard his car pull into the driveway. After two a.m. The front door opened and closed. He came into the bedroom and she could hear him undress. When he climbed into bed, he stayed on his side, but she could smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke come off him in waves.

&nbs
p; She began to cry, trying not to rock the bed so he wouldn’t know.

  The alarm went off at six thirty, but Kali was awake. She was pretty sure she hadn’t slept the entire night.

  Seth turned the alarm off and went straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. She heard the shower water run.

  The room was still dark—linen drapes pulled together over the closed blinds. Above her, the white canopy reminded her of the chuppah they’d been married beneath in the Jewish wedding ceremony. She rubbed her belly. Bucephalus or Bucephala. Whatever he wanted to call their baby was fine. She’d make breakfast. They’d talk. It was all a stupid misunderstanding.

  She crossed the living room in her bare feet, and stopped. The room looked different to her, like when she saw a familiar painting in a different light or setting. But nothing had changed since yesterday.

  She remembered mixing the lime-green and aqua-blue paint in order to capture the color of the ocean at dawn on the walls. She had sanded, then shellacked the Dade Pine floors so they looked natural, almost like driftwood. The canvas-covered sofas resembled cabanas at the edge of a beach. For contrast, there were accent pillows and glass vases in shades of orange like setting suns.

  Kali had loved it, but Seth had seemed baffled by the result. “Aren’t there too many colors?” he’d asked.

  But that’s how it had always been between them. She was the rainbow gypsy, Seth the black-and-white pragmatist. But they worked. Their colors worked together.

  Kali went to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and cracked several eggs into a bowl as she listened for Seth.

  She heard his footsteps in the living room, the front door opening as though he was leaving.

  No.

  “Seth,” she called after him.

  He was in a navy suit, halfway out of the house.

  “Wait.” She was still holding the bowl of eggs.

  “I have to get to court early.” He ran his hand through his short, dark hair.

  “Please. Just two minutes.”

  He stepped back inside, leaving the door open. The warm, thick air sucked the coolness out of the house.

  “What?” The muscles in his face were tight and there were shadows under his fudge-brown eyes as though he hadn’t slept either.

  She held out the bowl. “I can make these real quick.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She brought the bowl against the oversized T-shirt that she’d slept in. “Coffee, then?”

  He turned his head away from her, but she was sure his eyes had teared up.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she said.

  He looked down at his wingtips. She couldn’t see his face.

  “I think you misread the situation. There’s absolutely nothing going on between me and Neil.”

  He continued staring at his shoes, frozen in his position like a broken mannequin.

  “I went to the storage rooms to try to find something that would help me understand my past. Don’t you see? It’s important to me for our baby’s sake. And my grandmother has finally started talking to me—”

  “I don’t care about your grandmother or her past. What good can come out of digging up her skeletons?”

  “Okay. We won’t discuss her. I just want you to understand what I was doing last night. I need to know that you believe me.”

  His shoulders went back, as he took in a deep breath. When he lifted his head his face was red. “I believe you.”

  “But you didn’t last night?”

  He pulled the front door closed, then turned back to her. “Damn it, Kali. Why didn’t you come home when you said you would? I told you I don’t like being here alone.”

  She almost argued with him, but he looked like an injured child. “It won’t happen again.”

  He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

  “I was pretty worried about you, you know,” she said. “Where’d you go?”

  “For a drink.”

  “Alone?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You met someone?”

  “It was only Jonathan from work. He’s always asking me to grab a beer with him.”

  “Okay then.” She knew Seth. He would never do anything to deliberately hurt her. “Can we just move on? We’re both under a lot of stress, but we can’t overreact to things. We have to talk when we’re upset.” She patted her baby belly. “For Bucephalus,” she said, hoping to get a smile from him.

  He stared at her abdomen. Something was going through his head, but she couldn’t imagine what it was.

  She took a step toward him.

  He stepped back.

  “Seth?” She was alarmed. “Are we all right?”

  “Sure. Great.” And then he smiled, but his face reminded her of a crying clown.

  18

  Javier Guzman lit another cigarette and took a puff as he paced in the darkened living room. The rental apartment was in one of the recently built condo towers on South Beach. Most of the apartments were owned by South American investors, big corporations, and timeshare groups. In other words, transients. No one who gave Javier a second glance. Cost him five grand a month, but money was not an issue for him. He’d put aside a comfortable nest egg back in the early nineties when he had pioneered e-mail phishing. Sadly, that career and the subsequent ones were never anything he could boast about at cocktail parties. Not that he ever attended any. But he couldn’t help but wonder if things would have turned out differently with Gabriel if he’d stayed within the bounds of social acceptability. But Javier knew what the public viewed as honorable was often the lies and distortions that the devil made them believe. Lies Javier was determined to expose.

  He stared at the shadows in the horizontal blinds he always kept closed. The apartment had views of the ocean and downtown Miami, but Javier hadn’t moved to South Florida to enjoy the scenery. He was here for his son and to find the woman who would hopefully unite them.

  He put the cigarette out in a steel ashtray that was overflowing with half-finished butts, then went into the room he used as an office and mustered his ranks of computers. There must be something else he could do to find her.

  The blinds were closed in there, as well, but the six glowing computer monitors provided virtually all of the light needed in his tenebrous research chamber. The furniture, a combination of black leather, chrome, and glass, had come with the apartment, as did a couple of minimalist prints in cheap frames that hung on the walls.

  Javier swiveled around in the desk chair to face the credenza. He kissed two fingers and touched them against the crumbling cover of the book he’d discovered amongst his father’s things, then opened the credenza door to examine his father’s old record collection. The records were badly scratched and worn. Although he had cleaned, restored, and transferred the content of the 78s to the hard-disk drive of his sound system to preserve the specific performances that his father had enjoyed, Javier occasionally treated himself to listening to the originals directly. He chose Beethoven’s Eroica, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the needle into the groove.

  The music came on with a start. Some considered the third movement light and fluffy, but Javier found it energizing.

  He turned back toward the computer screens. State-of-the-art multicore processors and over eight gigabytes of memory comprised the engines in his three monstrous computers. Yes, the elaborate installation maximized Javier’s search capabilities. But all the while Javier had been configuring the setup, he’d also hoped Gabriel would one day be impressed at his father’s technological prowess.

  Javier’s personal T1 modem ensured he would never lose connectivity and could access any information he needed in an instant. Anything he cared to retain for later review or analysis was stored in one of ten massive disk drives, each with over two terabytes of available space. The setup was mirrored in the rented professional office that he also maintained, but was completely untraceable to anyone trying to track him down by IP address or any other ide
ntifier. His investigative tools unit, he was proud to say, exceeded the capabilities of most police departments. The Classic Films website was a successful business in its own right, as well as a possible magnet. It had morphed from his father’s original vision, when Vati used magazine ads to sell the old movies from a little area he’d set up in the back of his photography shop. Vati always believed he’d catch her through the films, and Javier kept the business alive just in case he was right.

  But it was Hailstorm that really mattered—the base from which everything would change.

  Javier picked up Vati’s photo from the corner of his desk. It sat beside the photo of a six-year-old Gabriel surrounded by Legos.

  The third movement was over and the needle oscillated in the groove as the record turned. Javier stared at his father’s strong, youthful face, remembering how Javier’s adoration had turned to abhorrence. When truth and lies had become inverted and Javier could no longer tell which was which.

  His heart still ached as he thought back.

  At first, when eleven-year-old Javier and his father had moved from Buenos Aires to Cincinnati right after his mother died, Javier had been in a self-induced bubble. He stayed away from his classmates, not understanding their jokes or games and wanting no part of them. He missed his mother terribly. Missed her kisses when his father wasn’t around to accuse her of weakening his son. Missed the sound of her footsteps and her soft humming when he lay in bed trying to fall asleep. He couldn’t remember her face clearly, but he could picture her sky-blue eyes, her pale blonde hair often combed forward to hide a bruise on her cheek, her arm in a sling.

  For over two years, Javier had sat in the back of the classroom, ate his lunch by himself, ignored the pointing and giggling. Because once he returned home, the world belonged to Javier and his father. He would listen to his father’s stories. Promise his secret loyalty. Superman, Javier would think. My father is Superman.

  Then one day, shortly before Javier turned fourteen, Superman was mortally wounded.

  Javier had been confused by the changes in his body, not understanding why his arms extended way beyond his shirt cuffs or why his pants no longer covered his ankles. If ever a teacher would ask him a question, Javier’s voice would crack—switching from high to low octaves in mid-word—and his classmates would laugh. Javier could still feel the humiliation.