Ghost Country (16 page)

His arms flailing, he pulled on whatever clothes lay to hand, stuffed his feet sockless into loafers, tore down the drive in his Mercedes with such a squealing of rubber that Karen ran down to the road—in her nightgown—to make sure the car hadn’t turned over. He intended to go into Chicago and demand that the police hold his sister without bail, without trial, send her to the Château. If for the rest of her life, which he prayed would be short.

Becca sat up in her bed, afraid he was going to murder Aunt Luisa. No, not that, but he was driving so wildly, what if he turned the car over, or hit someone? Or killed a dog? Around five she went into her mother and poured her terrors out to her.

Karen was worried, too, but her fears were more specific: that Harry would come home with his sister, unable, when the crunch came, to stand up to her. So when Becca spilled her fears for what her father might do, Karen, cords standing out in her neck, snapped she was more afraid of what Luisa might do.

“You’re so unfair,” Becca wailed. “She’s a great artist and you stuck her in a nasty little hole of an apartment.”

“She’s a great drunk,” Karen said. “Do you know she hit someone over the head with a whiskey bottle tonight? And when your father talked to the police sergeant, the man said she dragged some teenage girl into trouble with her.”

“But does that mean she has to go to jail? Why can’t Daddy bail her out? If you’re worried about the money I can use the CD I got from your mother for my bat mitzvah.”

“Darling, no. It’s not the money.” Karen pulled Becca to her. “Our only chance—your aunt’s only chance—is that if no one rescues her, she’ll finally realize she needs treatment. Dr. Hanaper told us tough love is the only solution for someone who denies her problems the way Janice does. What would you do if your father brought her home in the condition she was in when she called you?”

Becca couldn’t answer that: it was a typical unfair adult question, designed to make you feel wrong. She called her dog Dusty and took him back upstairs to bed with her, determined to stay awake until Daddy was safely home. Clutching Dusty’s fur, she wondered what teenage girl her aunt had taken up with. She felt a strange burst of jealousy and resentment, that Aunt Luisa preferred some other girl to her. She tried to imagine what Daddy and Mother would do if she had been arrested with her aunt, if she had called them in the middle of the night. Maybe this other girl lived with such understanding parents that they wouldn’t scream over the phone at her.

Becca couldn’t know that Mara Stonds expected so little empathy at home that she had refused to call Grandfather at all. An assistant state’s attorney did that when the police brought her to the station. Mara told the state’s attorney she’d just as soon go to jail, thank you very much, but he ignored her.

“Mara Stonds? Any relation to Harriet? Your sister? We went to law school together. Believe me, Mara, you wouldn’t like jail at all: hookers and drug addicts. They’ll tear the skin off your eyeballs.
Seriously. Why don’t you give Harriet a call? No? I understand, you’re too embarrassed: I’ll phone for you.”

Mara saw the shine in his eyes and realized he was a would-be suitor of her sister’s. She thought about telling him that rescuing her would not endear him to Harriet—that he’d earn more points by incarcerating her, but felt too apathetic to get engaged in conversation.

By the time she and Luisa were booked, Mara was feeling frightened by her own actions. What had been going through her mind? Maybe Grandfather was right, maybe she had inherited some gene of disease and degradation. Perhaps it wasn’t Mara’s inborn evilness that drove Beatrix away (one sight of that ugly baby, never mind that she was as bald as most babies, the mother could foresee the bush of springy coarse curls, that outward sign of an inward spiritual death, and took off from the infant as fast as she could). Maybe Beatrix recognized her own weakness in Mara’s baby face, was frightened at the idea she had perpetuated her monstrousness in her second child, and fled in terror from her own reflected image. Mara, sitting next to Luisa in the station, wept from desolation.

When they left Corona’s, Luisa followed Mara along Kinzie Street as it ducked under Michigan, through the maze of underground loading bays, to the foundations of the Hotel Pleiades. On the way they passed an all-night liquor store, where Luisa insisted that Mara buy her a bottle of whiskey. The man at the counter carded Mara, so she gave Luisa a ten, which bought a quart of Four Roses. Luisa sucked from it as they threaded their way past Dump-sters and homeless men wrapped in old coats. By the time they reached the woman at the wall, Luisa was lurching on her high heels, but Mara kept an arm around the diva’s waist to steer her past the worst holes in the pavement.

Madeleine Carter was in her usual place. The sidewalk and wall behind her were still damp from the hosing Brian Cassidy now gave them nightly. As soon as one of the maintenance men appeared, Madeleine would leap up, gather her bundle, and move around the corner, but by and by they would stop spraying and she would
return. Her first act was always to stick her fingers in the crack and make sure they still came away red. With that reassurance she would sit down again, try to read the gummy pages in her Bible, and talk to the Holy Mother under her breath.

“Uh-huh, they’re trying to scare me away, trying to torture You, but we’re both still here, I’m a rock that no one can move, yes on this rock You can build Your church. I see Your tears, don’t worry about that, I know all these days You’ve tried to speak, no one would listen, but I’m here, I hear You, oh, yes, I hear You, Mother, kiss me, hold me, taste me, my tears are bloody just like Yours.”

Every now and then Brian Cassidy would come to the garage mouth and stare at Madeleine. He made sure a squad car drove by every so often to pin her with its spotlight. She would quiver then in terror, stand on tiptoe to place her lips against the crack, cling to the grimy concrete as if it were a human frame, until the car moved on.

The squad car passed Mara and Luisa as they reached the mouth of the garage. The night light drained the dirt from Mara’s face and clothes; in silhouette they looked like a respectable mother and daughter, Luisa in her crimson cocktail dress, Mara in jeans, on their way home from the theater. The squad car moved on. Brian Cassidy returned to his office behind the cashier’s window.

Mara squatted down next to Madeleine. Madeleine shielded her face with her Bible.

“Cowards, cowards, quitters, they’re all cowards, Blessed Mother, cowards who want to destroy You. They will go away and leave me here, they’re fools and evil spirits, but You will take care of me.”

“I won’t hurt you,” Mara said. “We’re here to help protect the wall and to sing the goddess’s praises.”

When Madeleine continued to whimper Mara scooted further from her, until the homeless woman relaxed enough to lower her Bible. Mara crossed her legs, shut her eyes, and began a loud incantation to Gula:

“O Goddess, we your unworthy servants call to you to appear in power and majesty. Drive away these men who oppress us. Remind them that life and death are in your hands. Your tears on this wall are a sign. Woe to those who ignore it, pestilence will rain upon them like hail, their testicles will wither up and rot, their urine will turn black.”

Madeleine started to get excited. “It will. Their urine will turn black. They come and spray on the wall, they do their business on me, but the Holy Mother turns their urine black.”

The two garage attendants who worked the graveyard shift came out to the street to watch. The garage stayed open all night so that hotel guests could come and go at any hour, but for the most part it was a long dull shift: action on the street livened things up.

If Brian Cassidy knew about it, he would make them get out the hose and drive the newcomers away, but the two attendants, earning minimum wage and barely getting by, didn’t like tormenting a homeless woman. They had to, mind you, if they were ordered, because they didn’t want to end up on the streets themselves, but they’d just as soon the manager stayed inside his office.

Anyway, the new girl who was shouting next to the bag lady was young and, like any young woman, attractive. A little plump, but Nicolo liked to see a young woman who wasn’t afraid to eat. Working at a pricey hotel you saw so much food going to waste because all these rich women liked to prove how skinny they were by eating one lettuce leaf and throwing away a whole plate of salmon or pasta. It was shocking. Naturally homeless people hung out around the hotel’s Dumpsters: they could be sure of four-star leftovers most nights.

Luisa, leaning against the wall as she pulled on her bottle, was still angry with the manager at Corona’s for supporting those men against her. She was a diva; she had offered the finest jewel in her repertoire, the Violetta which had charmed Piero Benedetti and brought Europe as well as New York to her feet, and those Chicago morons, those beer-drinking Mammon worshipers, had thrown her
out on the street. Just like her brother. In fact, the boors at the bar were probably her brother’s hirelings, sent to watch for her and make sure that no matter where she tried to sing in Chicago she would be humiliated.

She became aware of the two garage attendants. There had been three men at Corona’s, but only one had been truly insulting: these must be his friends, come to make amends. She put the bottle down, steadied herself with a hand against the wall, and again belted full-throttle into “Sempre libera.”

Her voice was no longer the liquid gold that had bathed Benedetti twenty years ago. She wobbled in her upper register, cracked on the notes in the changeover, but she hadn’t lost any of her power. The noise floated past the cashier’s station to Brian Cassidy’s box of an office.

He came out, muscles moving easily under his suit jacket. “Nicolo, what’s going on out here? How come you’re just standing by while these broads create a disturbance?”

Nicolo held out his hands. “Boss, they hurting nobody. So she drunk, she singing, who hearing her?”

“I am. So is anybody using the garage. I want them out of here.”

As if summoned by his words, a Lincoln Town Car pulled into the bay, and a couple got out. The man tossed his keys to Nicolo; the woman took a brief look at Luisa and scuttled into the garage.

“A new service, Cassidy?” the man said. “Concerts for the guests while they wait for their cars?”

Brian Cassidy licked his lips. “Sorry, sir. I’m about to handle the situation.”

He went back into his office to call the police while Nicolo filled out the man’s garage slip. When Brian came back the couple was gone and Nicolo was parking the car.

Brian walked over to Luisa and shook her arm. “Can it, lady, before people start throwing old boots at you.”

“You impertinent ape, how dare you touch me?” Luisa blazed back.

“Listen, broad, you’ve got five minutes before the cops show. If you can still walk, make tracks and take your two pals with vou.”

Mara was on her feet. “Who died and left you in charge, you Nazi? This sidewalk is a public place. Did you ever hear of the First Amendment?”

“Yeah, and it tells me speech is not free to mouthy broads like you.” He slapped her face with the back of his hand.

“Help!” Mara screamed. “Help! Fire!”

She kicked Brian’s shins. He grabbed her and slammed her head against the wall. She collapsed to the pavement and started kicking at his crotch. He seized her left foot and started to pull her across the pavement, but she twisted and managed to wrap herself around his legs. He was a solid man; she couldn’t budge him, but he couldn’t get a purchase on her, either. Luisa looked on for a moment, her face haughty at the insults he’d hurled, but she suddenly thought of her whiskey bottle. Making sure the cap was screwed on tightly she tapped him on the back of the head with it. He let go of Mara and turned to punch Luisa.

At that moment the squad car returned. After a quick consultation with Brian Cassidy, the patrolmen wrapped up Luisa and Mara, scooped Madeleine up from the sidewalk, and cuffed the three women together in the back of the car.

M
ARA WAS IN
a spaceship sailing through the blackness of space. Strapped into the seat next to her was Beatrix. At the controls, her back turned to them, sat a woman in a bridal gown: only the white gown and veil were visible, but Mara knew it was Grannie Selena, because that was how she was dressed in her 1942 newspaper photo.

“Where are you taking us, Grannie?” she asked. “To Iraq?”

The woman at the controls didn’t speak, but Beatrix laughed. “Grandfather has dropped you down a black hole, didn’t you know? You’ll never find your way back up to land.”

Mara looked at her mother. It was a familiar face, from photographs Mara had found in Harriet’s desk when Harriet was at college. As in the photographs, Beatrix’s face was flat, without any human depth to it. As Mara looked the eyes turned into empty sockets. The hollow head continued to laugh: Mara was a ludicrous object, not lovable, uproariously funny only because she was unaware how absurd she was.

Mara wanted to get away from the two women, but the straps bound her tightly in place. She wanted to cry for help, but she couldn’t speak, and even if she did, in the vastness of outer space who would hear her?