The Devil's Madonna

by Sharon Potts

  “Hand me your cell phone, please.”

  Neil let go of the ladder, picked up the phone from the floor, and handed it to her.

  Kali brought the phone into the attic. Shadows jumped around the exposed beams and rusty pipes. She choked on the damp, metallic smell.

  “Anything there?”

  She went up another rung, and hoisted herself into the crawl space.

  “Damn it, Kali. Get out of there.”

  She held the phone in front of her, moving the light from side to side. Something was sticking out from behind a beam.

  “I see a small carton.”

  “Great. Now come down and let me get it.”

  But she was already crawling on her belly, through the dust, past the spiderwebs.

  Her fingers touched the edge of the carton. She got ahold of the side and pulled it toward her, then slid back toward the ladder.

  Her feet touched the top rung, and she carefully backed down, bringing the carton to the edge of the opening.

  “Please, Kali. Come down and I’ll get the carton.”

  “I’ve got it. It’s light. I can hand it down to you.”

  “Same stubborn-ass girl you’ve always been,” he said, taking the carton from her.

  She backed down the ladder, closing the cell phone, and dropping it on the cot next to the carton.

  “Strange thing to seal it with,” Neil said. “Looks like someone taped it up with a strip of contact paper.”

  Kali ran her finger over the camouflage pattern.

  “You recognize it?” he asked.

  “It’s my mother’s.”

  “The carton?”

  “Maybe. But definitely the camouflage seal. It’s what she used to cover over a painting she made on the inside of her closet door. To hide it from my grandmother.”

  “You think she hid this carton?”

  “We’ll soon see.” Kali ripped the contact strip off and opened the carton. Dust drifted up and bits of disintegrated cardboard flew around the room.

  Kali’s heart was pounding. Secrets. More secrets. Did she really want to know what was in here?

  She reached into the box. It was filled with crumpled newspaper. Her fingers touched something. She lifted out an object wrapped in plastic. She pulled off the plastic and found an old-fashioned suede handbag with worn leather straps.

  Neil picked up one of the balled-up pieces of yellowed newspaper and straightened it out. “February 1940,” he said. “I don’t think this was your mother’s.”

  Kali opened the clasp to the handbag and looked inside. There was a vaguely sweet smell, but except for a lace handkerchief, the handbag was empty.

  “I don’t get it. Why would your grandmother have gone to so much trouble to hide this?”

  Kali fingered the strip of camouflage contact paper. “Maybe she hid something else and my mother found it, then resealed the carton. Maybe my grandmother doesn’t even know what she hid is missing.”

  “But what?”

  Kali shook out the lace handkerchief. It was yellowed with age. And there was something on it. What looked like smudges of white latex paint. Beneath the white paint, she could see little specks of color. She looked more closely. The colors were from oil paint forming the outline of a small rectangle. As though the handkerchief had once been wrapped around a tiny painting.

  53

  They stood in the dark in the small foyer by the back door. Neil kissed Kali hard on the mouth.

  “I hate leaving you,” he said.

  She rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I know.”

  He lifted her chin with his fingertips and looked into her eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t go. It’s not like my mom will even notice whether I’m there or not.”

  “She’ll notice,” Kali said. “Even if your mother can’t show that she’s aware of her surroundings, I’m sure on some level she senses your presence and it comforts her.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  “Besides, it’s a special day—her birthday. You should be there to celebrate with her.”

  “You’re one to talk. You never celebrate your birthday.”

  “That’s different,” Kali said, taking a step back. She didn’t like being reminded of that.

  “I’m sorry. I’m coming across as insensitive. I’m just so amazed that you and I are together again, I hate to leave you, even for a few hours.”

  “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  “Yes, you will.” He kissed her again. “And then you and I have forever.”

  He left by the back door, pulling it closed gently behind him.

  She leaned against the door and locked it. Forever with Neil, she thought. A normal family for her child. She ran her tongue over her lips. They were bruised, not accustomed to kissing. She and Seth rarely kissed, and when they did, it was always cursory, butterfly kisses, like they were brother and sister or good friends. How could she not have realized there was a problem?

  Kali touched her inflamed lips and tears welled up in her eyes. It was over between her and Seth, so why did she want to run to him and beg forgiveness?

  But she knew why. Seth had been her best friend, and she was carrying his child. Although it had been his decision to end their marriage, Kali couldn’t quite let go of the future she’d envisioned with him.

  She went up the stairs, conscious of the soreness between her legs. Everything would be fine. She had never forgotten her dream of Neil as her child’s father. And they loved each other. What else mattered?

  She paused at the door to her grandmother’s bedroom. It was after seven p.m. and she was still asleep. Kali felt a flutter of anxiety. Had the sedative been too strong for her?

  Kali went to the bed and turned on the nightstand lamp. “Lillian?”

  Her grandmother took a sharp breath and opened her eyes. “Dorothy?”

  “No, it’s me, Kali. I wanted to be sure you’re okay. You’ve been asleep for a long time.”

  Lillian settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I’m tired.”

  “Okay, but if you want anything, I’ll be in my room.”

  Kali turned off the lamp and went to take a shower. The hot water pounded against her head, her face, her shoulders. The tension and emotional overload of the last few days steamed out of her. For the first time, she was able to think clearly.

  Yes, her marriage was over, but she still had her baby, and that was more important than anything. And while the last hour with Neil seemed magical, she wasn’t going to be a fool about it. She didn’t have to make any decisions right now. Nothing was pressing except for Lillian’s deteriorating condition. But were her grand-mother’s fears imagined, or could there be some significance to the lace handkerchief hidden in the purse in the attic?

  Kali turned off the water and dried her body, wrapping her hair in a towel. She slipped on a robe and went into her bedroom. The air that circulated from the open windows felt cooler, as though a cold front was coming through. Kali went to the window and looked down through the poinciana leaves, half expecting to see Neil walking Gizmo, but the street was deserted.

  She sat down on the edge of her bed and took the lace handkerchief out of the pocket of the T-shirt she’d been wearing. She shook it out and flattened it against the white bedspread. There were initials embroidered on one corner with ivory thread. H.S. This handkerchief was the same as the one Kali had found in her grand-mother’s closet. But what did H.S. stand for? Then Kali remembered. Lillian’s mother’s name was Hannah. Could this handkerchief have belonged to her? Then what had it been wrapped around?

  Kali studied the rectangular outline from oil and latex paint residue. She got a ruler from her desk and measured it. 3½″ × 4¾″, like a postcard. Hadn’t her grandmother said something about a postcard-size painting she’d once kept in her purse?

  The contact strip that sealed the carton suggested Kali’s mother had been the last one to have opened the carton, since it was the same pattern as
the camouflage paper she’d used to hide the fairy on the closet door. The fairy that Lillian had covered over with white latex—just like the paint on the handkerchief.

  Kali opened her closet and ran her hand over the smooth white surface. She could almost make out the outline of the fairy’s graceful head, the harp-shaped wings, the four angled arms.

  Kali felt a palpitation in her chest. She was remembering something. Something that hurt whenever it touched the surface of her consciousness, so Kali always pushed it back down. But not this time. She sat on the wood floor, her head against the closet door and let the memory out.

  She remembered waking up that morning, vaguely aware of the smell of pancakes. Her mother was singing a silly rendition of Happy Birthday.

  Kali laughed. It was her birthday. Her thirteenth birthday.

  “Good morning, my beautiful teenage daughter,” her mother said from the doorway. She was wearing a hot-pink sweater with her jeans. A good day. “I’ve made you pancakes for breakfast.”

  “They smell yummy.”

  “Yummy’s not a word a teenager uses. It’s more of a twelve-year-old’s word. Say something like, ‘They smell decadent.’”

  “But they don’t smell decadent,” Kali giggled. “They smell yummy.”

  Her mother laughed. “Fine. Have it your way.” She opened the curtains and blinds, letting the sunshine into the room. She glanced at the top of Kali’s desk and picked up the sketch Kali had made last night before going to sleep. She looked at it for a long, long time, making Kali nervous.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s wonderful, Kali.”

  Kali felt lightheaded. “You really think so?”

  “Yeah, I do. You have a true talent.” Her mother sat down on the edge of Kali’s bed. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and the blue in her eyes was the same shade as a perfect sky. She looked very serious. “I want you to promise me that you won’t let anyone ever stop you from painting.”

  “I promise, Mommy. But I don’t have to worry about Grandma. I have you.”

  “You certainly do.” She patted Kali’s leg through the blanket. “You know, when I was a little older than you, I found something that was very inspiring.”

  “What?”

  Her mother wrinkled her brow. “A beautiful little painting. I never found out who made it though.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  She shook her head. “But I know where it is.” Then she smiled. “What a great birthday present.” She stood up from the bed. “I can get it while you’re at school.” The smile turned into a broad grin. “Come on, now. Your yummy pancakes are waiting.”

  Kali made an extravagant flourish with her arms. “You mean my decadent pancakes.”

  And they had both laughed.

  The collar of Kali’s bathrobe was wet. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and neck. Kali never saw her mother again after that morning. Never saw the present her mother had been planning to give her.

  Could it have been the postcard-size painting Kali was now looking for? Her mother had told Kali she would get it while Kali was at school. And her mother had come here that afternoon. So it was probably somewhere in this house, very likely in this room.

  Kali sat up and started looking through the closet, examining anyplace a thin, postcard-sized object could have been hidden. She tested the floorboards, the walls, and looked under the shelves. When she had exhausted every possibility in her closet, she went through her room. She pulled out every drawer, checking beneath and behind for something taped. She turned her mattress over, then the box spring. Nothing below and no slits where something might have been hidden inside.

  Despite the coolness in the room, Kali became hot and sweaty. She took off the robe and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, letting her hair loose from the towel. She got down on her hands and knees and went back and forth across the room examining every floorboard.

  Nothing.

  Frustrated, she sat down in the rocking chair and looked up at her mother.

  “Please, Mommy. Tell me where you hid it.”

  Her mother just smiled.

  And then Kali noticed the very slight horizontal line across her mother’s dress.

  “Oh, my God.” Kali jumped up, leaving the rocking chair pitching wildly.

  She lifted the framed photo from the wall and turned it around. There was brown paper backing glued to the edges, but the top edge had separated from the frame.

  Kali pulled the backing away a little more and turned the picture upside-down. Something fell to the floor.

  She picked up the postcard-size rectangle and turned it over, letting out a growl of frustration. Whatever it had been, Kali couldn’t tell. Someone had painted over it with white latex paint.

  54

  Javier had been standing in the shadows since the sun had set. The lights in the upstairs bedrooms were off, but as he walked down the deserted street, he observed a light come on in one of the back windows that were obscured by the thick bougainvillea vines. He wondered what was in there.

  At around seven, the upstairs back light went out and Javier returned to his post across the street. He saw the young man from next door leave through the rusted gate. When had he come by and what had he been doing in the house? Had Kali been with him?

  Javier felt a surge in his pulse. He didn’t like this Rabin guy messing with Kali.

  His Kali.

  Of course, that’s what she was. She belonged to Javier and the Movement that she and her child would resurrect.

  Javier watched a light come on in the grandmother’s bedroom. A moment later, it went off and the light in Kali’s bedroom came on.

  He could hardly breathe as he watched the window, willing her to appear. Then, there she was, leaning out, her hair in a towel, the bathrobe falling open, revealing the curve of her breast.

  Javier was breathing harder. His fingers tightened around the key in his pocket. He could go up there now, put a pillow over the old woman’s face and be done with her. And then, he’d have Kali to himself.

  But of course, that wouldn’t work. He needed to be patient and do things the right way.

  Then he would take his time with the granddaughter.

  55

  It was early November, but Leli could hear the cold Berlin wind pounding against the tall windows of Wulfie’s studio. She shivered and took a sip of the brandy he had given her to ward off the chill in the room.

  The little painting sat on an easel, the light from a lamp on the adjacent table angled to brighten it, but Leli kept averting her eyes, unwilling to take in the full image. The woman, the infant—she caught them in flashes.

  “It’s finished,” he said, startling Leli with the nearness of his voice. “No, that’s not quite right. It can never be finished. I’ll never be able to achieve perfection, but it’s as close as I can get. At least—” He chuckled and wrapped his arms around Leli from behind. “I had better stop before the paint gets too thick and it loses the sense of what it is.”

  Leli forced herself to look at the painting and realized what he was talking about. The oil paint had been applied so heavily that the figures seemed three-dimensional, practically ready to jump out of the tiny picture.

  The infant’s blond curls looked real, and the rosy cheeks, sweet enough to kiss. Would Leli ever have a child of her own, she wondered?

  “The arms are miraculous, are they not?” he asked.

  The arms. How could the man she loved have created such a thing? She looked down at his hands crossed over her chest. There was a brownish smear on his forefinger like dried blood.

  “You know,” he said, “for thousands of years, these arms have symbolized life, purity, and good luck.”

  That was true. Leli had always made that association until the last few years. Until the symbol had been hijacked and perverted. But Wulfie was old. Of course, to him the bent arms would still have positive connotations. She relaxed against him.

&nbs
p; “I want you to have it.” His warm breath sent goose bumps down her back.

  “No, Wulfie. I couldn’t possibly take it from you.”

  He tightened his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “I have the original, my own Madonna in the flesh. You keep the painting, my darling.”

  The expression on the woman in the painting was practically angelic, reminding Leli so much of her mother that she wanted to cry. She reached out her hand to touch the face. It had been two weeks since she had gotten a letter from her mother and Leli was consumed with anxiety. There had been no word from Joseph in months. Her fingertip came away with a pin-prick-size drop of red from the lips. The paint hadn’t quite dried, but Wulfie didn’t seem to notice.

  He was reaching for her purse, opening it before Leli had a chance to stop him, removing the lace-trimmed handkerchief her mother had given her that Leli imprudently kept with her wherever she went.

  He didn’t pay attention to the initials in the corner as he shook out the white square. “I’ll wrap it in this,” he said, taking the tiny painting from the easel and swaddling it in the soft cloth as one might an injured finger.

  She dared not argue with him as he put it into her purse, snapped the clasp shut, then placed it back on the end table.

  He looked at Leli, patting his goatee, as though he was expecting her to say something.

  She was conflicted. Disturbed by the odious image the arms conjured up in her mind, despite how Altwulf intended them.

  But at the same time, Leli loved the tiny picture. Loved the reminder of her mother’s smile, the promise in the blue eyes of the beautiful cherub on her lap.

  “Leli?” Wulfie took a step toward her.

  “Thank you for the painting,” she said.

  Then he smiled and took her into his arms. “My Madonna. You’re my very own Madonna.”

  He undid her dress, leaving her shaking in her slip. His eyes looked different behind his wire-rimmed glasses, almost like he was seeing something other than her.