Sacrificial Ground

9

“It was murder, Caleb,” Frank said determinedly, as he and X Caleb made their way through the lunchtime crowds on Peachtree Street. The great towers loomed over them, a thousand small suns winking in a thousand separate mirrors. The heat rose from the street in steamy waves and rippled upward.

Caleb swabbed his face with a red handkerchief. “With malice aforethought,” he said. He pocketed the handkerchief and elbowed his way around a strolling couple. “You know what tipped me off? The way he dumped her. You don’t do that to someone you care about.” He shook his head. “My daddy was full of shit, but I remember that when he was laid out in his coffin, my mother reached over and straightened that poor bastard’s tie.”

They reached the small, treeless park at the center of the city. It was made of cement blocks, with little triangles of closely cropped grass. A large lunchtime crowd of clerks and office workers was munching sandwiches. A few scattered derelicts elbowed their way through the crowds, and to the far end of the park, a small area had been taken over by poor, unemployed men who slouched about in fishnet shirts and drank beer from cans wrapped in paper bags.

“The heat don’t make them nicer,” Caleb said with a small, thin smile. He sat down on one of the few wooden benches and patted it softly. “Take a load off, Frank.”

Frank sat down. “Headquarters would love it to be an accidental death,” he said.

“Fuck them,” Caleb said. He swabbed his neck again. “They got a low attitude about life, and they always have. Top floor’s black now, but nothing else has changed. There’s only one rule: cover your ass.”

Frank watched the long line of barely moving traffic that circled the park: taxis, delivery vans, private cars, and here and there a bicycle that whizzed by everything else. For an instant, he felt a strange envy for the men and women on their bikes, for everything that seemed less stranded and bogged down.

“They don’t see the bigger thing,” Caleb said, “the top brass. It makes them crazy ’cause they don’t.” He crammed the handkerchief in his coat pocket. “So you get this murder and then that one and then the one after that.” He shook his head. “Things blur.”

“Not much of a way around that, though, Caleb,” Frank said.

“I know one,” Caleb said. “You got to do a trick in your mind. You got to think that every murder is the first one that ever was.” His eyes shifted over to Frank. “In every one, there’s some little thing that strikes you,” he added. “I saw a little boy who’d been murdered once. His big brother had shot him. He was laying on the floor, and there was a little toy pistol still in his hand. That did it for me, that little pistol. I kept thinking about it, and in the end, it was all I needed to track that son-of-a-bitch brother down.”

Frank nodded slowly.

“Now with Angelica, it’s her hair,” Caleb said, “the way it was all laid out around her head. Just like a gold fan.”

Frank looked at him unbelievingly. “You think about that? About her hair?”

“Yeah,” Caleb said. “It’s what keeps the fire going in me.”

Frank turned away and looked at the stream of traffic again. He could not think of small things to sustain him, as Caleb did. For him, it was just the opposite. Instead of a toy pistol, a fan of hair, such small, incidental things, he sensed something infinitely large which lived in the darkest quarters of the city or swept out like a prairie wind across barren, dust-covered fields. It was something which fed on the shadows in which it lurked, and then, suddenly, without warning, stepped out of them and into the adjoining world, swept out like a gnarled hand and pulled someone back into it, leaving only traces behind, a toy pistol for Caleb to remember, or a strand of golden hair.

In his mind, he suddenly saw Angelica’s hair. But he did not see it as Caleb did, but as Karen had painted it in the portrait on Cummings’ wall. Something in the portrait clung to his mind like a silver hook. Slowly, delicately, he tried to bring each feature into view: the shining black shoes and white socks, the gently tapered ankles, the red velvet dress and the lace that curled about its hem then rose in a swirl of white to her chest, where it gathered gracefully in a small white pool. He could see Angelica’s neck rise from the lace collar, and then her face, so beautiful, framed by the blonde hair, each feature so perfectly wrought that it seemed separately made. He noted the ears, the full red mouth, the lines of her chin and cheekbones. Then, at last, he settled upon her eyes. He could see them very clearly, the blue irises, the black pupils, the oval pools of white. It was the irises that drew him back. Something was missing, the tiny white specks that give the eyes their light They had not been painted in the portrait, and because of that, Angelica’s eyes looked dead. Years before, her sister had painted her this way, but even now, as Frank felt a cold wave pass over him, he could not imagine why.

He was still thinking about it when he got home several hours later. For a long time, he stood on the little porch and watched night fall over the city. He stared first at one cluster of lights, then another, but always through the cloudy haze of Angelica’s painted face.

He glanced down at his feet, as if hoping to find a clue clinging like a piece of street debris to his shoes. But there was nothing there, nothing anywhere but in his mind, feelings the facts could not warrant, vague, half-formed intimations. There were times when he was sure his father had been plagued by such odd sensations, times when his deep-lined face would look so wounded that everything around him seemed to grow quiet, and the world would appear as some small, crouching animal, huddled, frightened, sleeplessly listening for the footfall of a larger, predatory beast.

For relief, Frank lit a cigarette. He allowed it to burn for a while, then tapped the ashes and watched them fall slowly toward the ground. They twirled gracefully in the heavy summer darkness, lightly, playfully, as if there were no earth beneath to catch their fall. But the earth came up quickly, and even from several feet above, Frank could see the ashes as they collided with it and shattered into feathery specks of white.

Suddenly, in his mind, he saw Angelica’s face shatter in exactly the same way. It was as if something had exploded beneath it, blowing its separate parts in all directions and leaving only the already lifeless eyes to spin like two dull marbles in the empty air.

He started to go back into the apartment, but as he turned, he felt a tremor move through him. It came from the ground beneath him, and he tried to imagine its source, a slight shift in the foundation, some tiny burrow caving in. He glanced at the window, to see if he could detect any trembling in the glass. But it was still. Everything was still. It was only in him, and so he simply waited for it to pass.

When it was over, he looked back into his apartment. It was an unappetizing clutter of fast-food boxes and newspapers. He could not bring himself to go inside.

The car was his escape, and within a few seconds he was moving down the city streets. Driving at night renewed and invigorated him. The flow of light, the feel of the air as it rushed through the open windows, worked on him like a tonic. For it was as if the streets belonged to him in some special way. He sometimes felt like the sole survivor of a bombed-out and abandoned kingdom, a ghostly presence, silent, restless, with nothing for thought but his own inchoate feeling, nothing for guidance but his hands on the wheel.

It was almost an hour later when he found himself far past the midtown towers. On his left, he could see West Paces Ferry Road as it came to an end at Peachtree Street. As he turned onto it and headed north, he could see Karen’s portrait of Angelica as if it hung like smoke in the passing web of trees.

He slowed down as he approached the Devereaux house, then edged the car over to the curb. The wrought-iron gate had been closed, sealing off the driveway, but to its left Frank could see a small hinged entrance gate. When he pushed against it, it opened immediately, and he walked into the grounds.

As he walked slowly up the graveled driveway, he could see the house very clearly. All the lights were out, but its outer walls glowed softly white in the full moon. For a while he stood beneath a large oak and watched the house. He could see no movement at all behind the darkened windows, and after a while he turned quietly to leave.

But suddenly the front door opened, and Karen walked out onto the grounds. She was dressed in a white blouse and long white skirt, as if she had decided to embrace the opposite of mourning. There was a single white ribbon in her hair, and the wind lifted it gently as he stepped out of the shadows and walked toward her.

She saw him instantly, and there was enough light for him to tell that her face did not change when she saw him. She stood very still, her arms at her sides, and waited as he neared her.

“The gate was open,” he said.

“Yes,” Karen said. She moved a few paces to the right, toward an enormous spray of summer roses. Their red petals had curled tightly for the night. She took one of them in her hand. “My father planted these for Angelica,” she said. She pointed toward another bush of white roses. “And he planted that one for me.” She looked at him closely. “Why are you here?”

“I’m not sure,” Frank said. “I went for a drive. I ended up here.”

“And the gate was open, as you said.”

“Yes.”

“I have a telephone, Mr. Clemons.”

“I know I should have called.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to,” Frank said.

He waited for her to answer back, perhaps insult him. But she didn’t. Instead there was just silence, without so much as a whisper of wind.

“I went to see Arthur Cummings today,” Frank said finally.

“About the trust fund?”

“About that, and about Angelica.”

“You won’t learn anything from him,” Karen said dryly. She released the flower and it sprang from her hand. “Why did you come here?” she asked again.

For a moment, Frank tried to come up with an answer that would satisfy her, something that would make sense either to her or to Brickman when she complained about him the next day.

“The portrait,” he said at last, “the one you painted of your sister.”

“The one in Cummings’ office?”

“Yes,” Frank said. “When did you paint it?”

“When she was eight years old.”

“And so you were …”

“Twenty-two,” Karen said immediately. She took a slow, hesitant step into the darkness, like one testing the water of a pool. “Twenty-two,” she repeated. She moved again, this time slightly backward, and fixed her gaze on the lush summer grounds. “We used to play here,” she said, “the two of us.” She looked at him. “All those childhood games. I can look over there and remember tying her up, Indian-style.” She nodded to the right. “And under that tree was where they set up the buffet at her third birthday party.” She laughed quietly. “My father loved to do that sort of thing, throw a grand party.” She shook her head. “Some people look for money, and some people look for ways to spend it. My father loved to see money flow away from him, rivers of money into the arts, schools, all sorts of things.” She drew in a long, slow breath. “I think it was his way of being good. It was probably the only way he knew to be good.”

“Was he good to Angelica?” Frank asked.

“Yes, he was. And he was good to me, and to Mother.”

Frank resisted the impulse to pull out his notebook. “Angelica’s face, the one in the portrait.” He stopped, waited, then let it drop. “The eyes.”

He could see a little shiver of emotion run through her body, then gather in her face.

“You noticed them?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She smiled. “You’re the first.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She looked at him as if he had insulted her. “I don’t lie, Mr. Clemons.” Her eyes settled on him thoughtfully. “And to tell you the truth, I’m surprised you noticed.” She shrugged. “Some people have commented that the painting seems a little odd. But no one has ever realized that it’s all in the eyes.”

“They’re dead,” Frank said.

“Yes, they are.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Karen replied. Her eyes swept over him. “The most I can say is that somehow I expected something terrible to happen to Angelica. When our parents died, I thought that that was it, the terrible thing. Then, later on, I knew that it wasn’t.”

“So you weren’t surprised by her death.”

“No,” Karen said.

“But if you—”

“We have a garden in the back,” Karen interrupted. “Do you like gardens?”

“I don’t know much about them.”

“You don’t have to,” Karen said. She smiled delicately. “I’m glad you came tonight. I guess you can understand that. I never thought it would feel this odd.”

“What?”

“To be absolutely alone.”

Frank nodded. “I’d like to see the garden,” he said.

“Good,” Karen said. “Come with me.”

He followed her around the side of the house to where the garden swept out before them, wet and gleaming in the evening dew. It was softly illuminated by small, bluish floodlights. There was a circular marble fountain, and here and there assorted pieces of statuary rose from flowerbeds or peeped over slender walls of carefully manicured hedge. It was beautiful, and for a moment Frank found himself oddly moved by it, as if the garden were a beguiling vision of an order and a contentment that were beyond his own grasp.

“We don’t cultivate anything that’s really exotic,” Karen explained. “The demanding ones just require too much.” She glanced at Frank. “Only the really hearty ones can make it on their own.”

“Do you have a greenhouse?” Frank asked.

“No. Only the garden.”

“Did Angelica like the garden?”

Karen’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t ever forget where you are or what you’re doing, do you?”

Frank felt himself bristle slightly. “There aren’t too many things worth doing,” he said.

She turned away from him. “Well, do you like the garden?”

“It’s all right.”

“So you don’t like it?”

“It’s nice,” Frank said.

“What do you like, Mr. Clemons?”

“The streets.”

“Why?”

“They’re not like this,” Frank said, nodding toward the garden. “They’re not controlled.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I think that once in a while everybody ought to have to put everything on the line. Maybe that’s why I like the streets.”

“Violence, you mean?”

“If it comes to that.”

“But violence doesn’t solve things, does it?”

“I’ve seen it solve a few.”

She waited a moment, as if considering her next question.

“Was Angelica murdered?” she asked finally.

“I think so,” Frank told her.

“Yes,” Karen whispered. She shivered slightly, despite the warm, musty air that surrounded them. “I think I’d better go in, now.”

Together, they walked back around the house.

“That’s Angelica’s room,” Karen said. She pointed to a single dark rectangle. “She always kept the shade drawn.”

“I’ll have to go through it sometime,” Frank told her. “Is tomorrow all right?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be here all day.”

Karen walked up the steps, then turned back toward him. “Go ahead,” she told him. “I’ll wait until you’re gone.”

It seemed an odd request, but Frank did not hesitate to honor it. As he walked toward his car, he knew that she was watching him, but he did not know why. And yet, he believed that he had somehow managed to break through to her. He could feel her eyes upon him as he walked away, and he knew that there was no hostility in them. He could feel some sort of line uniting them, one that stretched beyond the approaching gate, and farther still, to the other side of the city where the streets still clung to their anger, and his room waited for him like a lonely child.