Galilee

  “A little. She said she had a younger man in her life. Boasted, really.”

  “We got on great. She liked my martinis and I . . . I thought she was like somebody you’d see in a movie, you know?”

  “Larger than life.”

  “Right. Larger than life.”

  “She never did anything by halves, that’s for sure.”

  “I know that,” he said, with a little smile. “She was, you know, really . . . passionate. I never met any woman like her. Not that I’ve been around that many older women—I mean, I wouldn’t want you to think I was some kind of gigolo or something.”

  “What a nice, old-fashioned word.”

  “Well, that’s not me.”

  “I understand, Danny,” Rachel said gently. “You genuinely felt something for Margie.”

  “And she felt something for me,” Danny replied. “I know she did. But she didn’t want everybody gossiping. She knew people would think she was being sleazy. You know, with me being younger; and a barman, for Chrissakes.”

  “So is all this about making sure I don’t say anything? Because you needn’t worry. I’m not going to blab about it.”

  “Oh, I know that,” he said. “Really. She trusted you and so do I.”

  “So, what do you want?”

  He studied the sidewalk for a few yards. Then he said: “I wrote her some letters, talking about things we’d done together. Physical things.” He put his hand to his face and plucked at his moustache. “It was a stupid thing to do; but there were days when I was so full of feelings I had to write it down.”

  “And where are these letters?”

  “Somewhere in her apartment, I guess.”

  “And you want me to get them back?”

  “Yes. If possible. And . . . there’s some photographs too.”

  “How much stuff are we talking about?”

  “Only five or six photographs. There’s more letters. Maybe ten or twelve. I wasn’t keeping track. I mean, I never expected . . .” For the first time in the conversation she thought he was going to start crying. His voice cracked; he reached into his pocket and dug out a handkerchief. “God,” he said. “I’m a wreck.”

  “You’re doing really well,” Rachel said.

  “I know you probably think I was in it for what she could give me, and right at the beginning that’s what it was about. I’m not going to lie about that. I liked that she had plenty of money, and I liked that she gave me things. But in the end, I didn’t care any more. I just wanted her.” Without warning, the tears became a rant. “And that bastard sonofabitch husband of hers! Jesus! Jesus! How could anybody believe a word he says? He should be fried! Fucking fried!”

  “He’s going to get off,” Rachel said quietly.

  “Then there’s no justice. Because he killed her in cold blood.”

  “You seem very sure about that,” Rachel said. Danny didn’t reply. “Is that because you were with her that night?”

  “I don’t know that we should get into this,” Danny said.

  “It seems to me we’re already there.”

  “Suppose you have to testify under oath.”

  “Then I’ll lie,” Rachel said flatly.

  Danny cast her a sideways glance. “How come you’re like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Just . . . not all pissy with me, you know? I’m just a barman.”

  “And I’m a girl who sold jewelry.”

  “But you’re a Geary now.”

  “That’s a mistake I’m going to fix.”

  “So you’re not afraid of them?”

  “I don’t want Margie’s name dragged in the dirt any more than you do. I’m not guaranteeing I’ll find this stuff, but I’ll do what I can.”

  Danny gave her his telephone number, and they parted. If he didn’t hear from her, he said, he’d just assume she’d changed her mind, which he’d perfectly understand, given the circumstances.

  But Rachel had no intention of changing her mind. As she walked home she was already laying plans for how best to get into Margie and Garrison’s apartment in the Trump Tower and search it without being discovered. There were risks involved, no doubt of that; she was consorting with somebody who the police would surely want to interrogate, if they knew of his existence. Her silence in the matter was probably a crime; and searching a murder site, then removing (if she was successful) evidence of the affair was certainly interfering with the processes of the law. But she didn’t care. There was more at stake in this endeavor than finding Danny’s love letters and a few indiscreet photographs.

  She was all but lost in a labyrinth of potential alliances: Loretta wanted her on her side, Danny needed her help, Mitchell had effectively threatened her if she didn’t stay close by. Suddenly she was important to the balance of power; but she didn’t entirely know why. Nor did she know what the consequences of choosing the wrong allegiance would be. What fell to the victor in this battle between sons and stepmother? Simply the incalculable wealth of the Gearys? Prize enough to murder for, without question; but only if those involved were not already rich beyond dreams of avarice.

  Something else moved these people, and it wasn’t money. Nor was it love; nor did she think it was power. Until she knew what it was she would not be safe, of that she was certain. Perhaps if she went to the place where Margie had died—Margie, who had been a victim of this thing she could not grasp or understand—its nature would come clear. It was a primitive hope, she realized; close to a kind of superstition. But what else was she to do? Her analytical powers had failed her. It was time to trust to her instincts, and her instincts told her to go and look where the harm had already been done; to look, as it were, back along the path of the bullet that had taken poor Margie’s life. Back into the dark heart of Garrison Geary, and to whatever hopes or fears had moved him to murder.

  V

  i

  Glancing back over the last several chapters, I realize that I’ve left a thread of my story dangling (actually, I’m certain I’ve left a good many more than one, but the rest will be sewn into the design in due course). I’m speaking of my sister’s adventures. You’ll recall that the last time I saw her she was in flight from Cesaria, who was furious with her for some unspecified crime. If you’ll allow me a moment here I’ll tell you what all that was about. My fear is that if I don’t tell you now the urgency of what is about to happen in the lives of the Gearys will prevent me from breaking in at a later point. In short, this may be the last real breath I can take. After this, the deluge.

  So; Marietta. She appeared in my chambers three or four days after my encounter with Cesaria, wearing a dreamy smile.

  “What are you on?” I asked her.

  “I’ve had a couple of mushrooms,” she replied.

  I was irritated with her, and I said so. She had too little sense of responsibility, I said: always in pursuit of some altered state or other.

  “Oh, listen to you. So you didn’t take the cocaine and Benedictine?”

  I admitted that I had, but that I’d had a legitimate reason: it was helping me stay alert through the long hours of writing. It was quite a different situation, I said, to indulging day after day, the way she did.

  “You’re exaggerating,” she said.

  In my fine self-righteousness I made a list for her. There was nothing she wouldn’t try. She smoked opium and chewed coca leaves; she ate pharmaceutical painkillers like candies and washed them down with tequila and rum; she liked heroin and cherries in brandy and hashish brownies.

  “Lord, Maddox, you can be so tiresome sometimes. If I play music and the music’s worth a damn, I’m altering my state. If I touch myself, and I give myself pleasure, I’m altering my state.”

  “They’re not comparable.”

  “Why not?” I drew a breath before replying. “See? You don’t have an answer.”

  “Wait, wait, wait—” I protested.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “I don’t see that it’s your business what I
do with my head.”

  “It becomes my business if I have to deal with your mother.”

  Marietta rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord, I knew we’d get round to that eventually.”

  “I think I deserve an explanation.”

  “She found me going through some old clothes, that’s all,” Marietta replied.

  “Old clothes?”

  “Yes . . . it was ridiculous. I mean, who cares after all this time?”

  Despite her cavalier attitude she was plainly concealing something she felt guilty about. “Whose clothes were they?” I asked her.

  “His,” she said with a little shrug.

  “Galilee’s?”

  “No . . . his.” Another shrug. “Father’s.”

  “You found clothes that belonged to our father—”

  “—who art in Heaven . . . yes.”

  “And you were touching them?”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Maddox, don’t you start. They were clothes. Old clothes. I don’t think he’d even worn them. You know what a peacock he was.”

  “That’s not what I remember.”

  “Well maybe he only did it for my benefit,” she said with a sly smirk. “I had the pleasure of sitting in his dressing room with him many times—”

  “I’ve heard enough, thank you,” I told her. I didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking; nor the gleam in Marietta’s eye. But I was too late. The rebel in her was roused, and she wasn’t about to be quelled.

  “You started this,” she said. “So you can damn well hear me out. It’s all true; every word of it.”

  “I still—”

  “Listen to me,” she insisted. “You should know what he got up to when nobody else was looking. He was a priapic old bastard. Have you used that word yet by the way? Priapic?”

  “Well now you can, quoting me.”

  “This isn’t going in the book.”

  “Christ, you can be an old woman sometimes, Maddox. It’s part of the story.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with what I’m writing.”

  “The fact that the founding father of our family was so oversexed he used to parade around in front of his six-year-old daughter with a hard-on? Oh, I think that’s got everything to do with what you’re writing.” She grinned at me, and I swear any God-fearing individual would have said the Devil was in that face. The beautiful exuberance of her features; the naked pleasure she took in shocking me.

  “Of course I was fascinated. You know the origin of the word fascinated? It’s Latin. Fascinare means to put under a spell. It was particularly attributed to serpents—”

  “Why do you insist on doing this?”

  “He had that power. No question. He waved his snake and I was . . . enchanted.” She smiled at the memory. “I couldn’t take my eyes off it I would have followed it anywhere. Of course I wanted to touch it, but he told me no. When you’re a little older, he said, then I’ll show what it can do.

  She stopped talking; stared out the window at the passing sky. I was ashamed of my curiosity, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “And did he?” I said.

  She kept staring. “No, he never did. He wanted to—I could see it in his eyes sometimes—but he didn’t dare. You see I told Galilee all about it. That was my big mistake. I told him I’d seen Papa’s snake and it was wonderful. I swore him to secrecy of course but I’m damn sure he told Cesaria, and she probably gave Papa hell. She was always jealous of me.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “She was. She still is. She threw a fit when she found me in the dressing room. After all these years she didn’t want me near his belongings.” She finally pulled her gaze from the clouds and looked back at me. “I love women more than life itself,” she said. “I love everything about them. Their feel, their smell, the way they move when you stroke them . . . And I really can’t bear men. Not in that way. They’re so lumpen. But I’d have made an exception for Papa.”

  “You’re grotesque, you know that?”

  “Why?” I just made a pained face. “We don’t have to live by the same rules as everybody else,” she said. “Because we’re not like everybody else.”

  “Maybe we’d all be a little happier if we were.”

  “Happy? I’m ecstatic. I’m in love. And I really mean it this time. I’m in love. With a farmgirl no less.”

  “A farmgirl.”

  “I know it doesn’t sound very promising but she’s extraordinary, Maddox. Her name’s Alice Pennstrom, and I met her at a barn dance in Raleigh.”

  “They have lesbian barn dances these days?”

  “It wasn’t a dyke thing. It was men and women. You know me. I’ve always liked helping straight girls discover themselves. Anyway, Alice is wonderful. And I wanted to dress up in something special for our three-week anniversary.”

  “That’s why you were looking through the clothes?”

  “Yeah. I thought maybe I’d find something special. Something that would really get Alice going,” Marietta said. “Which I did, by the way. So anyway thank you for taking the heat from Cesaria. I’ll do the same for you one of these days.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” I said.

  “No problem,” Marietta said. “If I make a promise, I’m good for it.” She glanced at her watch. “Hey, I gotta go. I’m meeting Alice in half an hour. What I came in here for was a book of poems.”

  “Poems?”

  “Something I can recite to her. Something sexy and romantic, to get her in the mood.”

  “You’re welcome to look around,” I said. “I presume, by the way, that all this means you think we’ve made peace?”

  “Were we ever at war?” Marietta said, as though a little puzzled at my remark. “Where’s the poetry section?”

  “There isn’t one. They’re scattered all over.”

  “You need some organization in here.”

  “Thank you, but it suits me just the way it is.”

  “So point me to a poet.”

  “You want a lesbian poet? There’s some Sappho up there, and a book of Marina Tsvetaeva.”

  “Is any of that going to make Alice moist?”

  “Lord, you can be crude sometimes.”

  “Well is it or isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” I snapped. “Anyway, I thought you’d already seduced this woman.”

  “I have,” Marietta said, scanning the shelves. “And it was amazing sex. So amazing that I’ve decided to propose to her.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No. I want to marry my Alice. I want to set up house and adopt children. Dozens of children. But first I need a poem, to make her feel . . . you know what I mean . . . no, come to think of it, you probably don’t . . . I want her to be so in love with me it hurts.”

  I pointed. “To your left—”

  “What?”

  “—the little dark turquoise book. Try that.” Marietta took it down.

  “It’s a book of poems by a nun.”

  “A nun?” Marietta went to put the book back.

  “Wait,” I said to her, “give it a chance. Here—” I went over to Marietta, and took the book—which she hadn’t yet opened—from her hand. “Let me find something for you, then you can leave me alone.” I flicked through the musty pages. It was years since I’d perused these lyrics, but I remembered one that had moved me.

  “Who is she?” Marietta said.

  “I told you: a nun. Her name was Mary-Elizabeth Bowen. She died in the forties, at the age of a hundred and one.”

  “A virgin?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “Well it is if I’m trying to find something sexy.”

  “Try this,” I said, and passed the book back to her.

  “Which one?”

  “I was a very narrow creature.”

  Marietta read it aloud:

  “I was a very narrow creature at my heart,

  Until you came.

  None got in and out of me with ea
se;

  Yet when you spoke my name

  I was unbounded, like the world—”

  She looked up at me. “Oh I like this,” she said. “Are you sure she was a nun?”

  “Just read it . . .”

  “I was unbounded like the world.

  I never felt such fear as then, being so limitless,

  When I’d known only walls and whisperings.

  I fled you foolishly;

  Looked in every quarter for a place to hide.

  Went into a bud it blossomed.

  Went into a cloud it rained.

  Went into a man, who died,

  And bore me out again,

  Into your arms.”

  “Oh my Lord,” she said.

  “You like that?”

  “Who did she write it for?”

  “Christ, I assume. But you needn’t tell Alice that.”

  ii

  She went away happy, and despite my protests at her disturbing me, I felt curiously refreshed by her conversation. The idea of her marrying Alice Pennstrom still seemed absurd, but who am I to judge? It’s so long since I felt the kind of sensual love Marietta obviously felt; and I suppose I was slightly envious of it.

  There’s nothing more personal, I think, than the shape that emptiness takes inside you; nor more particular than the means by which you fill it. This book has become that means for me: when I’m writing about other people’s loss, and the imminence of disaster, I feel comforted. Thank God this isn’t happening to me, I think, and lick my lips as I relate the next catastrophe.

  But before I get to that next catastrophe, I want to add a coda to my account of Marietta’s visit. The very next day, at noon or thereabouts, she returned to my study. She’d obviously not slept since the previous meeting—there were bruisy rings around her eyes, and her voice was a growl—but she was in a fine mood. The poem had worked, she said. Alice had accepted her proposal of marriage.

  “She didn’t hesitate. She just told me she loved me more than anybody she’d ever met, and she wanted to be with me for the rest of our lives.”

  “And did you tell her that your life’s going to be a hell of a lot longer than hers?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “She’s going to have to know sooner or later.”