by Steven Clark
Terri’s eyes sharpened at Pierre. “You didn’t hear my screams, did you?”
“I did.”
“Yeah,” she glared, “I screamed. I left my body.” She stared at the carpet, its swirling pattern almost like some kind of garden she wished to escape into, a magic carpet of escape. “Really, salvia does that. You see yourself. You look from the ceiling and see you.” She stroked her forehead. “That’s supposed to be wonderful, isn’t it? The whole astral, out-of-body thing. What every con man and street corner mystic peddle, but when you do it—” Terri gulped for air, as if she’d been dunked underwater. “To be out of your body and feel nothing. Nothing!” She shivered. “To be a freaking ghost. I couldn’t take that. Having no body. It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever felt, and Lucas? Oh, our wonderful brother, our heir to the throne. He thought it was so cool!”
I saw Terri was drained by this. I watched as her fingers covered her eyes, then moved down.
“Maybe I’m a drunk. Maybe I screw around. Okay, I admit it, but it’s better than floating with nothing to you. That’s goddamned scary. Even after all these years, it’s the worst thing I ever did. But Lucas kept wanting more. He wanted to be a ghost. Well, he got his wish.”
Pierre nodded. “Mother and Father blamed us. Terri especially. As if she could control Lucas. Everyone blamed each other. We stayed away. We grew away. That’s it. It’s all very American.”
Their bitter silence meant it was my turn. “At the end of the day, before we’re whatever we think we ought to or want to be, we’re children. We have to bury our parents. We have to go up there and say goodbye.”
Terri frowned. “Her and that goddamned Veiled Prophet and its royal claptrap. That was her big moment, you know. Being VP Queen.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “She knew about Lucas. Maybe the Veiled Prophet was her escape. We all try to escape life, but we can’t escape death. We have to go up there as a family. You don’t have to stay the whole time. I’ll do that. That’s my job. Stop hiding. We can’t hide from death.”
“Of course,” Pierre said quietly, “but the estate—”
“I never wanted any of it. You tried to destroy the mansion, but that didn’t work. Vess is out. Sonia’s gone. You wanted to destroy our mother, Lucas, all the arguments and angst that took place inside these walls. It didn’t work, and that was more by accident than anyone’s plans. Believe me, I wasn’t a great strategist. It was just … all family wars are wars of attrition.” I sighed. “We’re worn out. Let’s go upstairs.”
Rainer spoke. “Mrs. Bridger is right. Make your peace. Accept your fear. Then you may leave.”
Terri’s frown was severe. “I’m not afraid. Not like I was.”
“We’re all afraid,” I said, “because we don’t know what death is, but know that eventually, it will be our turn. Because whatever memories we have of our family, good or bad, when our parents go, it’s final. We don’t know what happens afterward. It might be nice if you’re right, Pierre, that in the end we become nothing. Because I’ll tell you what scares the hell out of me.” I paused, thinking back to a long, bad time ago. “What scared me as a girl, alone in my room, alone as I heard my lousy relatives decide how to get rid of me after Dad died and Mom—the woman I thought was my mom—took off …”
I took a deep breath, remembering that room with thin walls and odd smells of the old, the incontinent, of memories that clung like bad cooking odors. The rumblings of the Seven Dwarfs over the TV noise, and how “I hugged my Raggedy Ann. I was afraid if I died, I’d be in eternity. I’d go on forever and forever and forever, that there would be no end, that I’d never have a body, never know love or feelings anymore, that I’d just … never stop!”
The silence in the drawing room and eyes drawn on me made me blink. For a moment, the headache left. “That made me cry. That made me hug my doll, made me cling to something. Our mother has a strong faith, the kind we’ll probably never have, but we owe it to her to go upstairs. Lucas is gone. His screw-ups belong to eternity. We have this moment. This one last moment.”
Shadows darkened the drawing room, cloaking its gilt and triumph. We went upstairs.
We entered quietly as Saul sat by the bed. Jama stood by, attentive to Margot until her eyes raised to us. Terri and Pierre, like me, immediately smelled death. A desert of silence filled the room, then both began talking to a gasping Margot, conversation like raindrops, here and there, leopard spots on the pavement, the early spring rains when St. Louis wakens from its winter. There was no unrealistic hope, nor were there recriminations. It was a mother and her children. It was a meeting of the waters … not the grand statuary of the Mississippi and Missouri, but two small streams that, after winter’s drought, commingle with the rains.
It seemed uneventful, their small talk, but then erosion is also a banal, eternal power. Finally, Margot pointed to her can of Sprite. Terri got it and filled a cup with ice, offering it to Margot. In the dim light, her eyes watered.
Forever and forever and forever.
I forced my terror down as Terri and Pierre wept.
30
To Levira, Now Free From Pain
When Terri took Margot’s hand, Jama slid past them to meet me.
“Her skin is yellow,” she said.
“The liver’s shutting down. She’s already crying from the pain.”
Her voice lowered like a faint candle. “Morphine.”
I nodded while Terri and Pierre clustered around Margot, whispering, touching, as we gave the morphine. For a moment Margot smiled, then her withered hand reached out to stroke Terri’s cheek. I motioned for Jama to follow me into the hall. Once there, I drew close.
“What the hell and how?”
One of Jama’s wicked smiles almost formed, but not quite, stopping the usual round of sarcasm. “Yeah. A big ‘oops’, huh?”
My eyes took aim. “You know what you’re doing. Those charts and how you used the morphine drip were perfect. The way you fixed her linen. Kept her skin from breakdown. The way you’re handling her.”
“Okay,” said Jama, leaning against the wall next to a painting of the Mississippi, an imitation Bingham where flatboatmen idled on a sunset tinged current spilled with pink.
“A couple of years ago, something went wrong with a production company in Simi Valley. Studio politics, a movie that was more a tax write-off than a film, like two-thirds of ’em. The DA went on a witch hunt, funds got legs of their own and walked away.”
“You got framed.” I tried to sound sympathetic.
“Nine counts of fraud, but the judge liked me. Ventura County cut a deal. I could do three months in a orange jumpsuit, or I could hack five months community service. I hacked.”
She studied the painting. “I worked in a nursing home. Did all the scut work and I moved up. I wasn’t really licensed, but I was cheap, I was white, and the old folks liked me. Everyone’s always overworked, and they were glad to teach me tools of the trade, and the Home bribed the inspectors, so no one was nosing around for credentials.”
What else could I do but nod? There’s always an elephant in Jama’s room, and this one was more than credible. “You learned well.”
“Like I said, they liked me. Before the oldies kicked off, I was the one they wanted. I was gentle. I told stories. I didn’t steal.”
Saul appeared, interrupting the heart-to-heart. “Lee? Need you.”
In the bedroom, Pierre smiled at Margot, but his eyes were moist. Terri leaned closer.
“We shouldn’t quarrel,” Margot whispered. “We were. Happy. Once.”
Terri’s voice quavered like a candle in a draft. “Yes, Mom. We used to be.”
Margot sighed deeply. “So proud of my children. My little girl.” She reached to Terri, who took her hand and brought it to her cheek. “Dancing. Miss Vratski’s class. You were so beauti…”
Terri turned and sniffed. Pierre took Margot’s other hand.
In the drawing room Rainer stood alone and rig
id, the last bishop on the chessboard. “I have sent for the priest. Madame said to do so when it was time.”
I quickly nodded and waited. Rainer indicated the door. “I asked the guard to cross the street to the waiting car. To ask him in.”
The door opened and my blood chilled when Rasheed’s familiar cologne and charcoal-colored suit exuded suave and threat rolled into one.
“My condolences.” His politeness, as always, was ordered and sharpened. “I sense death is near.”
I stared at him. “I’m looking at it.”
Rainer indicated Rasheed and I sit across from each other, Margot’s portrait almost a judge in session. “It was explained to Madame about her granddaughter’s debt.”
My eyes shot to Saul. He shook his head. Rainer sighed.
“Mrs. Bridger, did you not think we knew of your foibles? Especially the one you conceived?”
I was careful. When all was said and done, Jama was indeed my very own foible.
“Okay. And?”
Rainer reached behind the lily patterned brocade chair and produced a leather brief case. Classy but showing scuff marks, probably fished out of the cellar where China Doll was examined. Rainer handed the brief case to Rasheed. “You will find the right amount. You may count it if you wish. We will not be insulted.”
Rasheed reached in. My heart pounded when he pulled out bricks of bills tied together. He nodded as Rainer continued.
“We thought you might appreciate cash. It is very liquid, and no doubt your sheik will savor the visual pleasure of a debt paid.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I don’t want this.”
Rainer was cold in the central European mode. “What you want is irrelevant. Madame decided on this course of action, and it is completed. Please don’t interfere, and that includes you, Mr. Lowenstein.”
Rasheed clicked the brief case shut. “I am satisfied. As I always thought, there are still a few Americans with honor.”
Saul glowered. “And ready cash.”
Rasheed nodded. “My task here is done. Jama is free of her debt. Within the hour, I fly to my sheik.”
“Yes,” I said with a glare, “don’t spend it all on one bombing.”
A quiet triumph glowed in Rasheed’s eyes, like when he was in the Cathedral, doing inventory for the Prophet. “In Afghanistan, Mrs. Bridger, they have a saying. ‘You Americans have clocks. We have time.’”
“Goodbye.”
A moment later, Saul held me as we looked out the window and saw Rasheed’s car drive away. I lowered my head to Rainer. “I’m sorry about all this.”
Rainer didn’t flinch. “Madame said to wait until she talked to Jama. She nodded to me, and I knew what had to be done. To the Desouches, one hundred thousand is, as you Americans say, pin money. As you will soon find out.”
Saul and I went upstairs. Margot had stopped drinking Sprite; her dry mouth wanted ice shavings.
Father Moller arrived and bent over her. She smiled to him, slowly whispering her last confession into his ear. I felt my chest chill as he said I absolve thee of all thy sins.
Terri sat outside the door, rubbing her eyes. “She stares more.”
I nodded. “She’s shutting down. It, the cancer, eats everything and saves the brain for last. Soon her memory will slip. It will become puddles of reality, like a river or lake that’s drying up. She’ll see flashes of us all, then it will fade. Take those moments and love them.”
Pierre had been listening in long silence. “How long does she have?”
“It’s different with everyone. The body can fight on. It’s a remarkable organism, like a horse that won’t obey the reins, but wants to keep galloping.” I rubbed my neck, feeling older, heavier, wasted, as one does with death watches. “It will be hours.”
Pierre coughed and went to the bathroom
“He’s going to cry,” Terri whispered.
I sighed. “We all are.”
Two hours later I sat in the drawing room. Kelly came down the stairs, and I offered her a Kleenex. She daubed it, embarrassed at her mascara running, blonde hair bouncing as she rolled her shoulders.
“She smiled at me. Oh, Lee, Margot was one of a kind. When I was at Mary Institute, I was so—” she waved a hand —“so geeky. I can’t tell you how lonely I was.”
I nodded at this beautiful girl you’d take one look at and think bimbo. Kelly sighed and stroked her blonde hair that seemed made for the VP Queen’s tiara.
“Margot talked to me. She said, ‘Kelly, listen. You’re so special and good. Go for Veiled Prophet Queen, my dear. Go for everything, because you have so much to give.’” Kelly offered an unusual frown. “Margot’s going to be an angel. I just know it.”
I smiled. “I think you’re right.”
I thought of all the love and encouragement Margot gave to Kelly, things she’d stopped giving to her children. But I was one to talk. Jama and I had a truce, one I sadly knew would end with Margot’s death. Kelly wiped her eyes.
“Is she in pain?”
“Not anymore. The morphine takes care of that.”
“I hate thinking of that wonderful woman being in pain.”
I nodded slowly. “We need pain, Kelly. It’s easy to say we don’t suffer, but it defines us. Pain tells us to value what is precious and good. We never grow until we suffer.” I rubbed my temples. “This headache really makes me value not having one. So much for my speeches.”
Kelly rose and sniffed. “I think your speeches are cool.”
Pierre slowly descended the stairs and looked vacantly at family portraits. I saw Kelly’s eyes waiting, wanting more talk. I continued.
“In Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Illich, a lawyer dies of cancer. He progresses through the stages of hope, trying to ignore the eating away of his kidney. Then he’s afraid. He’s angry, then despairs, for he senses he’s lived in vain. Finally, there’s acceptance, where, as Tolstoy wrote, in place of death there was light.”
Kelly rose, nodded through a fearful smile, and we embraced. A sigh came from behind. “Light,” Pierre whispered, “like what they always say. That final tunnel of light.”
It was time to go back to the bedroom. Pierre joined me as we climbed the stairs.
“I’m not so sure about it and the cheerful beings on the other side. They say the tunnel and bright light are due to the frontal lobes experiencing a lack of oxygen. The temporal lobes kick in, and produce an opium-like fantasy. Perhaps the body is simply letting itself go.”
“So Nirvana isn’t spiritual, just organic?” Pierre’s voice was like an envelope being opened. “All that remains is pain, and when it’s over, we’re free. Sure you’re not a Buddhist?”
“I keep an open mind.” We entered the room.
I studied Margot’s sunken face. I’d given her the last medication, the atrophine for drying up the upper-airway rattle people get when they die. “You understand she’s gone. All that’s left are reflexes. Look, I don’t believe in last words or speeches, all of that Shakespeare hooey. When people die, they moan. Whisper. They give out words that are scraps of their life … the last dry land before the waters rise.”
“Tattie,” whispered Margot. “Tattie give me spoon.”
I looked at Pierre. His sigh was like a coat sliding off the shoulders.
So we listened to Margot the child. The floor creaked, and Terri entered, large circles under her eyes. Jama waited by the door.
“She’s talking about Tattie,” Pierre said to Terri, who nodded. “Tattie was a cook. When we were kids. She made delicious cakes.”
“Dear, dear,” Margot sighed to no one in particular. “Dear, dear.”
“Tonight?” asked Terri.
I nodded. “People die easier at night. I think it’s the air and dampness. Perhaps nighttime helps the body shut down. In hospitals, it always happens more at night.”
Margot, eyes closed, cracked a weak smile. “Ba-by. Lit-tle baby. Baaaby.”
Terri looked at me. Which baby? Lucas
? These two? Or was Margot back in the morning light of a hospital in New Orleans, where time dissolved and she smiled after a long delivery in the exhaustive joy of her first-born?
The deathwatch became, as it always is, a siege. Everyone’s tears had been shed; now we were exhaustive and staring. I noticed the light in the room was a dull off-white, like tallow or pumice. Light borrowed from years ago. I remembered the light shared by Pierce and me that muggy afternoon when traffic clogged Columbia’s streets. Tailgate parties sprouted like burdocks as Mizzou took on Kansas. Pierce and I had strolled in the old quadrangle past sunlit columns to the museum whose aged brick looked like long-dried nail polish. The quad was still in Indian summer silence. Across the campus came a moan from the stadium, like crashing waves.
“Is this being too nerdy?” Pierce said as he led me in. “Doing a museum on Homecoming?”
“As one nerd to another, why not? We saw the parade, so we’ve a right to nerd it up, kiddo.”
The brick floor inside was cool and welcome from the humidity. I enjoyed the museum’s hermetic feel. Pierce led me to the classical room. “I was doing some more reading on Alpha-2- globulim,” he said. “It’s hopeful.”
I slowly nodded. “That’s why you’re majoring in chemistry? Because you could find a cure for schizophrenia?”
“They think its excess leakage in the brain wall might be a cause.”
I studied the figurines of goddesses and votive offerings. “This is because of your father? Okay, but Pierce, I thought journalism school was it?”
Pierre’s wonderfully probing, clear blue eyes examined a Greek krater. An eternal carousel of gods and nymphs rounded its lip. “Like I said before, Mom, there’s no P.C. in chemistry. A formula is what it is. You can’t put quotas on the elements.”
Pierce shifted to the right, perhaps in more than one way. It reminded me of a subtle, creeping conservatism as he aged. When I brought it up, he only smiled and changed the subject.
“Here,” he said. “This is one I really like.”
We stood before a funerary sarcophagus from second century Antioch. A woman dolefully leaned out, arms on its borders as if it were a window sill from eternity. The limestone was off-color. At the woman’s edges were flecks of paint, reminding us that classical statuary was painted. I judged the colors must have been bright, like in India.
