The Bluest Blood

by Gillian Roberts

  “Look,” he said softly. “Please.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Once was enough.”

  “Try. Calmly.”

  I forced myself. I saw the melted glasses again. And then I realized those were all I saw. No nose, or mouth, or features. Where were his eyes, his ears? Where was his face?

  “Now look at the hands,” Mackenzie said in the voice of a patient teacher.

  Pale semicircles lacking digits. Like a rag doll’s. Like the face.

  “He—it’s not a man, is it?” I whispered. “Never was.”

  “It’s an effigy.”

  The burning form was stuffing covered with cloth. “Nobody was lynched.” It comforted me to say it out loud, make it fact. “There’s nobody there.”

  Mackenzie nodded.

  I should have laughed with relief, except that what was there—the effigy—had been designed to strike terror, and had succeeded. That nobody had been killed was a comfort, but that somebody had gone to great lengths to inspire fear negated that comfort.

  The fire had been set on a gravelly semicircle beside the road. A turnaround, perhaps. Or maybe the site where rubbish was collected, because I spotted a trash can near the pyre.

  Trash can. I looked across the road at the granite post we’d nearly hit. It and its twin across the drive anchored a pair of arched wrought-iron gates. And on each column, the word GLAMORGAN was carved in Gothic relief.

  “It’s them,” I said. “Again. This has their trademark all over it.”

  “I think so, too. Those zombies.”

  The group he meant—the Moral Ecologists—had declared war on libraries and reading lists, determined to banish “mental pollutants.” Our small private school was added to their hit list the day our Roederer Trust grant was announced. This past week, via the Moral Ecologists’ placards, bullhorns, and pamphlets littering the school’s entryway, I’d been informed that The Color Purple “corrupted” young minds, that Slaughterhouse Five would “promote deviant sexual behavior,” and that both The Diary of Anne Frank and The Canterbury Tales were too sexually explicit for our students. Our students! It would be funny were it not so frightening.

  The Moral Ecologists denied responsibility for the series of book-burning bonfires plaguing the city, but praised whoever had done the “good deed,” calling them “civic heroes.” The fires were nevertheless accepted as their handiwork, although nobody could prove the connection yet.

  With each new fire, I saw visions of men wearing black boots and swastikas, of robotic salutes, the triumph of ignorance. The world hadn’t taken those people seriously soon enough, either.

  Tea and Neddy Roederer, repeatedly funding libraries, giving dollars like so many slaps in the face of the Moral Ecologists and their attempt to restore the Middle Ages, were their prime and fearless antagonists. I shuddered and realized I was shaking my head, trying to deny them access.

  “Look at the effigy’s glasses,” I said softly. Neddy Roederer’s trademark black-framed Buddy Holly glasses. “The trash can.” The Moral Ecologists, accusing Neddy of promoting garbage, called him Trashman. “The kindling. All right angles. They’re burning books again. Only now, they’re also burning Neddy Roederer, right at his front door.”

  “Not Neddy, an effigy,” Mackenzie corrected me. “But how’d they know about tonight? Are we to believe they don’t read books, but they do read the social calendar? Not that your school’s fund-raiser would be listed in it. How did they know?”

  “Maybe it’s coincidence. Or PR savvy. They always manage to schedule their events to get the most media attention. Remember the one at Penn the day the freshmen’s parents came to visit? For all we know, they’ve harassed the Roederers for a long time.”

  “Let’s go to your party,” Mackenzie said.

  I didn’t budge. Couldn’t. The party was now locked in with this malevolence. The excitement I’d felt seemed nostalgic, part of an earlier, more innocent, time. As if I’d been a child half an hour ago. The fire had burned away the shine and coated everything with ash.

  “Nobody got hurt,” Mackenzie said. “Remember. Nobody got hurt.”

  “Yet.” I shivered, and it had nothing to do with the damp chill in the air. My thoughts were impaled on the idea of people who needed to intimidate and terrorize, on their lethal mix of hatred and self-righteousness, their potential power, their targets. I looked over at the smoldering books on the gravel, and then back at Mackenzie, resplendent in his tuxedo, and I sighed. “Nobody got hurt—yet,” I said. “But they will.”

  And they were. It generally feels great to be proven right, which I ultimately was. But at no point did it feel great. It never felt anything but horrifying.

  Two

  To my amazement, the up-close power of Glamorgan dispelled the dark brooding that had overtaken me. I paused at the front door, admiring the house’s assurance. It was a monument to entitlement, sitting on its knoll as if it had always owned the site, as if serfs might still live in hovels in the rolling countryside surrounding it, might still tug forelocks to their lord of the manor.

  The power of the place almost made the ugliness across the road seem a taunt not worth noticing. Almost.

  I don’t know what style the long-ago architect considered his sprawling stone handiwork. I knew the place had grown over the years from its origins as a farm before the Revolutionary War. Now, it had a hint of chateau, a whiff of villa, a dollop of Stately Homes of England. It should have been a dreadful pastiche, but when it had all been stirred and simmered and ivy-covered, an exquisite dwelling emerged. Solidity itself.

  Once inside, I had to fight to keep my jaw from dangling. Excess can be stunning when each portion of it is exquisite.

  A place like this was probably subversive. The Old World’s palaces were the result of gross inequities—rigid class structure and unearned privilege—that drove our forefathers away. What then, to make of New World citizenry living in regal splendor? And nobody screeching, “Off with their heads!”

  I stood in the entrance hall inhaling the essence of money. Acres of finely grained marble flooring. A circular table inlaid with a tableau of peacocks and palms formed of semiprecious stones. A screen whose panels of pastel cherubim must have once belonged to the Medicis. An RV-sized chandelier that caught its own light in a thousand crystal facets. An upward sweep of curved and carved staircase.

  I could live with this. “I was meant to be raised in the lap of luxury,” I told Mackenzie.

  “Me, too,” he said. “Only problem was, luxury stood up before I arrived.”

  “If you’ll follow me,” a man in a morning coat said in Brit-crisp syllables.

  “Butlers.” Mackenzie’s voice was low. “You don’t hardly find them these days.”

  “The majordomo,” I corrected him. “The head butler.” Education compliments of Masterpiece Theatre.

  Mackenzie raised a single, challenging eyebrow.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the morning coat. “You are the Roederers’ majordomo, are you not?”

  “That some kind of putdown?” His accent was suddenly pure Philly, and his tone, offended. “Because I don’t appreciate it. Me, I’m a musician. My cousin owns the catering company. I don’t have a gig, I work for him. I gotta eat, too.” And resuming his unearned hauteur, he turned his back and again we followed.

  “Cocktails in the libr’y,” he said. “This way.” His Philly had Anglo edges again.

  “He’s a minordomo,” Mackenzie said.

  We passed several rooms, a series of settings, visual hits of color and texture: burgundy leather, pale silk, dark wood and floral wallpaper, a harp, a globe, flowered chintz, a marble bust on a pedestal.

  “I need a phone,” Mackenzie said.

  “Ask the minidomo.” I was busy coveting. I’m not materialistic. If I were, I’d have to be masochistic as well, because my profession cuts me no slack on the “stuff” score. So I don’t yearn or fester or covet. Not usually. But there are exceptions t
o every rule, and this was one of them.

  We reached open double doors. “The libr’y,” the mock-butler said. “The bar is in here. Another is in the music room.”

  I nearly swooned.

  “Be a sec,” Mackenzie said.

  “Why?” The word was not out before I remembered why and couldn’t believe I had forgotten. Obviously, galloping materialism causes short-term memory loss.

  “In case the local police don’t know.” He moved off, followed by the major dummy.

  Without Mackenzie as shield and ally, I was acutely aware that my dress was rented, I hadn’t paid my way into this gala, and probably nobody but my principal wanted me here. I made an uncomfortable entrance into the library. Nobody hailed or beckoned. Your basic party nightmare.

  I squelched the urge to hide in the powder room. Been there, done that a hundred years ago. At thirty-plus, I had to relinquish adolescent behavior. I tried to look thrilled with my own company and prayed Mackenzie wouldn’t be too long.

  I’d been in houses that labeled any room containing a book The Library, but this room actually functioned as one. Every inch not otherwise occupied by stained glass casements or the towering Gothic fireplace was filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves, some with etched glass doors, all filled with books. A library ladder on wheels was positioned for easy access around the room.

  The firelight caught the luster of leather wing chairs and sofas. It splashed off the polished surface of a library table, the carvings on a delicate writing desk, and sharpened the indigos and rubies of the stained glass windows and the guests’ jewels.

  I tiptoed over intricately patterned carpets until I noticed what I was doing and forced myself to walk normally, and behave as if I were accustomed to home libraries as large as an entire home, to furnishings made of precious and probably endangered resources. All the while, I was sure somebody was about to lift an eyebrow and say, “What are you doing here?”

  I accepted a champagne flute from a smiling server, eager to quell my dry mouth and jumpy nerves, but I only sipped. Elegantly packaged parents eyed me sideways. You look familiar, their expressions said, but from where? They normally paid me as much attention as they might any other appliance they’d purchased. To many of them, and to my regret, I was an upper-tier servant, hired to fill their children’s days and minds. A function with a face, forgettable. Tonight, I was out of costume and context, and thereby unrecognizable.

  It was easier for me to know who they were, even though they, too, looked remade. I was used to faces red from embarrassment at teacher conferences, or redder still from the elements, carrying forgotten medications, lunch money, or assignments. Philly Prep was a service that was supposed to free them, and they were always impatient to get out of the place. Maybe they were afraid they’d be told their offspring had turned out to be just like them.

  Tonight they, too, were in disguise, transformed by gloss and cummerbunds. Or maybe this was their natural costume, because they seemed at ease.

  Mackenzie, having completed his good-citizen run, returned. “They knew,” he said. “They’ve gotten about fifteen calls. They are out there now—no sirens, no fuss.”

  I considered the other people milling around, many of whom must have placed calls, none of whom seemed to be discussing the outrage across the lane, and I understood why. It was so ugly, so appalling, that mentioning it would be like dragging something dead and rotting into the party, a gross breach of etiquette. Still, it felt strange, as if we were all playing blindman’s bluff with a fearsome phantom in the room with us.

  Mackenzie and I hovered on the periphery until a flinty woman with whom I’d had a bitter to-do about her son’s grade waved with an attitude that suggested papal dispensation. Or lack of recognition. In either case, she was our first friendly face, and we needed all the socialization we could squeeze out of this crowd.

  She moved closer, and Mackenzie and I introduced ourselves. Even knowing who I was, she remained civil. The evening held promise.

  We swapped many oohs and several ahs about the house and the hors d’oeuvres, but even while supposedly speaking to me, she didn’t look my way. She looked Mackenzie’s way. She hadn’t floated over to socialize, but to seduce. Happily, she wasn’t good at it, and I made an excuse about meeting someone in the music room and aimed my man and myself toward the doorway. There is a limit to precisely how accommodating I have to be to parents.

  En route to the exit, we perused the bookshelves. It’s automatic with both of us. But at least half my attention was still on the woman’s arrogance and talons, so it was Mackenzie, not I, who registered how extremely rare were the contents of the glass-enclosed case near us. “Unless they’re facsimiles, which I do not believe would be the case,” he murmured, “these are priceless. Look here, Corneille’s The Cid, early sixteen-hundreds. Vaughan’s Poems, Izaak Walton’s Life of Donne—the first professional biography,” he whispered. “Whole shelf is seventeenth-century.”

  I squeezed in next to him and looked at the bindings, the gilded titles on their spines. “You were wrong about this house not living up to my fantasies,” I whispered back. “My fantasies were too impoverished to live up to this house.”

  “Miss Pepper, isn’t it?”

  My sophisticated response was to bang—loudly—my head against the cabinet’s glass door, startled as I was by Neddy Roederer’s voice. Had the etched glass been of a lower quality, I would have required stitches. As it was, only my ego was lacerated.

  I’d met him the week before at the library ceremony honoring the Roederer Trust gift, a collection of art history and photography books, plus an annual bequest. “Mr. Roederer,” I croaked in a humiliated voice.

  It wasn’t odd that I remembered him, but it was head-bangingly shocking that he remembered me. Me! I couldn’t have been more irrationally dazzled had he been the original, certified Prince Charming.

  Which he was not. He was a tall, rangy man with forgettable features, dark-rimmed glasses, and a shock of black hair, all of which bore an unfortunate resemblance to the effigy across the way.

  “Did you think I’d forget you?” he asked with a warm smile. “Who else inspired the newspaper staff to write about the library’s needs? Or to have our son, Griffin, shoot the photos for the article? You’re the reason we became involved.” He gestured at the roomful of people. “So I suppose you’re the reason for tonight as well.”

  I held my breath. I felt like Harriet Beecher Stowe must have when Lincoln called her the little lady who started the Civil War. Fortunately, I had no idea how apt that comparison was.

  “For which aid, assistance, and prodding, I’m quite grateful,” he said.

  “We were admiring your collection,” Mackenzie said, saving me from having to formulate words while I remained flabbergasted. “You seem particularly fond of seventeenth century English works.”

  “An interesting time for literature, don’t you think, Mr.…”

  I found my voice, or most of it, and began introductions, feeling less ept with each stammered approach to the mystery of Mackenzie’s C. K. What the hell. “This is Caleb,” I said. “Caleb Mackenzie.”

  Mackenzie winked at me. That wasn’t his name, either, then.

  Roederer shook Mackenzie’s hand with boyish, semiawkward charm. “Restoration works intrigue me,” he said. “Perhaps you’d enjoy one of my favorites, an interesting edition of Pilgrim’s Progress, although not the original, not the first. This edition wasn’t printed until 1690, but it’s quite beautiful.”

  He bent to insert a tiny key in the lock. “Climate is controlled in these cabinets,” he added. “But doesn’t hurt the books to breathe real air once in a while.”

  I backed off, afraid to be near a priceless object after my unfortunate encounter with the cabinet door. I was sure I’d tip my champagne onto its pages, or have a sneezing fit.

  A thick-featured man with a shelf of eyebrows had been watching our threesome, and as Edward Franklin Roederer retrieved his bo
ok, the observer moved closer, craning his neck to see the title.

  Roederer seemed amused and pleased by the other man’s curiosity. “All bibliophiles welcome,” he said. “Pilgrim’s Progress, 1690 edition, beautifully illustrated. Come, look.”

  The man seemed taken aback, as if he’d expected a different response. “You like old books, too, eh?” He made his words half inquiry, half sneer.

  Roederer’s smile became tentative, but he nodded. “A passion of mine for some time now. And do you share it, Mr.…” He stopped to study the man, who said nothing. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? You look familiar. But I seem to need assistance remembering where it was.” He extended his free hand. “Edward Roederer. Everyone calls me Neddy, I’m afraid. And unfortunately, my memory for faces far exceeds my ability to recall names.”

  The other man waited longer than was civil before proffering his hand, all the while peering at his host. Then, as they shook hands, he apparently had done enough reconnoitering to respond. “Didn’t think we’d met in person,” he said, “but you look familiar, too. I mean I know who you are, but I thought only by reputation. Still and all, I know your face. Probably from the paper, eh?”

  Roederer’s smile turned quizzical.

  The Roederers’ pictures were seldom, if ever, in the paper. Even at the dedication, they declined to be photographed. Too many crazies, they’d explained. I thought of the fire across the way and agreed.

  “Are you perhaps Canadian?” Roederer asked. Good breeding showed. He continued to play gracious host to a boor who didn’t care a whit about Pilgrim’s Progress, didn’t glance at it once he’d established its title, and hadn’t introduced himself when asked.

  “Born, raised, and educated in Toronto. How’d you know? You Canadian, too?”

  Neddy Roederer laughed and shook his head. “Not specially anything, I’m afraid. Born in France, schooled in Holland and Hong Kong. Lived all over even before meeting Tea and her wanderlust. But since then, even more. Horrified our families by being footloose. We did try Canada once, but it was too cold, so we moved on to Bali. Or maybe South Africa. Can’t remember. We’re nomads.”