Broken Angels (20 page)

“A mystery solver, huh?” he said. “Sure you’re not following a red herring?”

She smiled back. “I’m no amateur, honey. And men aren’t that complex. Honestly, I think I’m getting close to the end of you.”

“Is that so?” he asked after swallowing another mouthful of juice.

“Or perhaps,” she said, “to the end of what you think you’re trying to become.”

Darryl gave her a quizzical look. Veronica smiled again. With only one eye exposed to view, in a dimly lit lounge, Darryl thought her smiles were looking more unsettling than they probably should’ve been. Was it her, or was it him?

“And what’s at the end?” Darryl asked.

“A beautiful creation, of course.”

“Oh, why, thank you.”

“I didn’t mean you,” Veronica said. “You, Mister Ridley, seem determined to remain incomplete, unfinished, unresolved.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re incomplete,” she repeated. “Basing your life off of half-formed ideas and pieces of philosophies, each of which may appear beautiful individually—but when taken together as a whole?” Veronica shook her head. “We’ve got to fix that.” She took another sip of her tea.

What was that? He got the reference to his comments in the sculpture garden on Saturday, but what was she really saying? Was she insulting him, or was that supposed to be playful banter? The throbbing in Darryl’s temples made it hard for him to tell which. He decided it’d be best to just brush it off, keep cool. Starting an argument wouldn’t stop his headache.

“Are you suggesting I re-create myself ?” Darryl asked. “Take on a new personality maybe, or a different lifestyle?”

“I’m suggesting the one you have now isn’t working,” she said. “You’re only jerking yourself in circles.”

Darryl laughed, but not out of amusement.

“You can continue to just make yourself feel better,” she said, “or you can make an effort to help heal the world.”

When they met, Darryl didn’t tell her exactly what he did; he only said he was a social worker for the homeless. She hadn’t asked for details, and Darryl had thought it odd. In the DC-area, the first thing folks almost always wanted to know after meeting was what the other did for a living, and the second thing was where, and there were usually several related follow-up questions. Veronica hadn’t pursued it, so Darryl thought it doubly strange she suddenly pretended to know all about him, even if she was speaking vaguely. He’d met pretentious artists before, but she was breaking the mold. “You may not believe it,” he said, “but that’s just what I’ve been trying to do.”

“I believe you believe you’ve been doing some good,” she said. “But I also believe you’re half-blind.”

Darryl looked at the blonde tresses covering her right eye. She had to be kidding him.

“You’re blind to your own potential,” Veronica said. “I’ve seen it. And it’s huge.”

Darryl smiled at a thought that popped into his head. “Is ‘palm reader’ also on your list of talents?”

She smiled back at him, another one of her discomforting smiles, but said nothing.

“And have you realized your potential, Miss Blake?” Darryl asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m an artist. Ever curious, but sure of The End: a peaceful beautiful world, a perfect existence. As an artist, I’m living and working for a time and place that has no time and no place for artists.”

The mold of pretention, broken.

“Artists don’t live to entertain,” she said. “They only exist to remind the world of imperfection. At The End, there’s no need for art, there’s no urge to imagine something different, there’s no desire to change or alter anything. In spite of what all these neo-nihilists and the faux-anarchists and the pseudo-rebellious say they believe in, they and we all want the same end: the place-time after the Greatest Artist has sung-spoken-painted-written The Word, producing the Greatest Work of Art.”

That was a mouthful. Darryl didn’t quite get what she was saying, but he thought he found it a little interesting. Maybe. His thoughts had become more and more agitated as she was speaking; he assumed that effect had to mean something. He wanted to ask for clarification, but the pangs in his head…He tried to ignore them, play it off.

Darryl pushed his plate aside, clasped his hands on the table, and leaned toward her. “You artists love to use those pretty words,” he said with a smile. “Talking in tangles, but strangling all meaning.”

“Look who’s talking,” she said as she copied his actions and leaned closer to him. “I can tell, quite clearly, that you, Mister Ridley, have been living a pretty-pretty perverse life in the name of an artful little book you really don’t understand.”

Darryl stopped smiling. “Excuse me, Miss Blake, but I’ve read that colorful little book, from cover to cover, well over a dozen times. I understand its message more than anyone. Maybe you just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tried to hide any signs of the anger that seemed to be contributing to the fizzing sensation in his brain’s frontal lobe, but he couldn’t help but coat his words with venom.

Veronica furrowed her brow and inverted her smile as she opened her mouth, no doubt ready to spit a response dipped in acid. She was on the verge of losing her playful cool. But she swallowed it all back when their waiter passed and placed the check on the table.

Neither Veronica nor Darryl spoke as they retrieved their debit cards and, at the same time, threw them on the table. After the waiter made another pass-by, Veronica broke the silence.

“You know, you’re right. Words are meaningless in this day and age. Misunderstandings stand over words, buried.”

Darryl thought he recognized her last sentence as a quote from something. A misquote maybe. But he couldn’t remember. All he could do was rub his temples with his fingers.

“You know,” he said, “you’re really making my head hurt, V.”

“Am I now? I’m really, really sorry.” She seemed genuine. “I didn’t mean to talk so much about nothing, but I thought you were the philosophical type. I just wanted to engage you on your level. Talk mind-to-mind, heart-to-heart. How about we go for a walk to try to clear things up?”

“I—” The
fizzing
sensation had become stronger; it seemed to be expanding to other regions of Darryl’s brain. Where the hell had it come from? “I don’t know. I’ve really got a lot to do today.”

“Now, D., can any of it be more important than taking a stroll down what you may one day remember as lover’s lane?”

Lover. The tragic word. Attempting to ignore his headache, Darryl removed his hands from his head and smiled at her. “Is that your way of coming on to me? I’d expect that type of language from a sad, cheesy-rat male, not a smart and savvy female.”

“Oh,” Veronica said as she signed her receipt, “I promise you’re not going to be expecting what comes next.”

“I’m not a kid,” Darryl said. “I’m sure I can guess.”

She responded with a wink then said, “Excuse me for one moment. I want to let the band know I’m going out for a stroll.” Veronica rose from her seat and glided her body around the other chairs and tables as she made her way to a door leading backstage. Darryl remained at the table, staring at the flickering flame of the candle at its center. He massaged his temples with one hand and picked up the candle’s lighter with the other while all his conscious thoughts tried to focus on the reasons behind one clawing headache.

Misunderstandings stand over words, buried…
Where had he heard that before?
Had
he heard it before? Regardless, what did it mean? And why did his brain feel like it was shrinking while sprouting multiple birds’ talons, talons that picked and scratched at the inside of his skull? Why—?

“Ready?”

Darryl started and almost fell out of his seat. He hadn’t seen or heard Veronica approach; she seemed to have appeared from the other side of nowhere, materializing by his side the moment she asked her question.

“Yeah.” He tried to keep his equilibrium in check as he got up from his chair. He massaged his temples once more as they approached the exit.

A construction sight dominated their first view outside. Most of the area was still in development, at a stage where the HSA hadn’t even set up surveillance cameras yet. Just outside of Old Town Alexandria, it was an area slowly moving toward completion; the economy was its primary obstacle. Like all such works-in-progress, the display of creation showed much more evidence of destruction. The area’s construction projects had led to an increased production of garbage, which in turn had led to overflowing dumpsters and overstuffed sidewalk garbage cans. The excess spilled onto the ground only to be kicked or blown farther away by the winds. Adjacent to the littered sidewalks were some brand-new stores and some empty shops with “Opening Soon!” signs in the windows; some had “Retail Space for Lease” signs, while others were just black, providing no reflections, no views, and no hint of their future use. Among the open and operating places in the area were a movie theater, a federal courthouse, some other nondescript buildings housing various government offices, and a yellow line Metro station. There were also assorted restaurants and other eating spots, most nearly empty at any given time. There was really no reason to be in the area on the weekend, unless one was coming to catch a movie or grab a bite. There was nothing else to do but walk, peacefully.

Their brunch date had been an early one. Darryl and Veronica had met at the lounge at nine o’clock. When they left, it was more than half past ten, and much more humid than it had been earlier. Darryl had dressed smartly and had taken the proper dosage of his medication on schedule; he was nevertheless even more uncomfortable outside than in.

In another state of mind, he might’ve had something to say about the near total lack of cars as he and Veronica walked halfway around the construction project’s circular fence, its posted sign proclaiming it the future site of John Carlyle Square. He might’ve had more detailed and interesting responses to Veronica’s remarks about the sign’s descriptions of the walkways, the lawn area, the trees, the plants, and the decorative fountain that would all be a part of the completed Square. If he had been himself, Darryl might’ve suggested a different route for their stroll, maybe the one that would take them toward the Metro station.

But he allowed Veronica to lead him by the hand, down the avenue across Holland Lane, and into the African American Heritage Park. They walked down the long, wide steps onto a gravelly path. Darryl’s body was there, but he was looking inward, not fully noticing that, as they followed the pathway, to his left, just across the narrow waterway of Hooff ’s Run, there were more than a hundred carefully arranged tombstones. Veronica breathed something about “sassy symbolism” and whistled a dreadfully familiar tune, but Darryl paid it little mind.

His scattered thoughts—of conflicted faith and neglected duties, of championed philosophies and limp poetics—only began to draw back together as a tightening cluster of trees darkened the path they walked. At the middle of the wooden footbridge, an area almost completely shielded from sunlight, Darryl saw carvings that had been made by a knife and traced with ink for greater visual effect: “Save the Children.” His headache went nowhere, but the sight of the Arkangel’s whispered words made Darryl refocus on the here-and-now. He stopped walking, forcing Veronica to do the same. She didn’t stop whistling however. She didn’t even turn to look at him. Her nose, eyes, and chin were pointed upward. Veronica seemed preoccupied with something nesting in or resting on the branches above them—but Darryl was in no mood to bird-watch. He tried to draw her attention to him.

“Okay, V. Let’s talk straight. You were saying something about art, and The End.”

“Hmm?” Veronica lazily turned her head.

“At the club. What were you saying?”

The quiet time during the walk had done Darryl some good, despite the headache. Veronica’s words, her very strange words about art and The End, couldn’t help but remind Darryl of the most recent discussion with Adam and Robert. Veronica was so different from everyone he’d ever met. What insights did she have? What did she really know?

“Oh, yes,” she said with an exhalation that sounded like the beginning of a giggle, “all of that. Sorry. But sometimes I play things checkered, just to hear how they’ll sound.”

Maybe she was too different. While staying the same in appearance, Veronica’s language, throughout their date, made it seem as if she were phase-shifting though different personalities. Was she high on something?

“What are you talking about?” Darryl asked.

“That phrase, my love, is a direct quote from the nymphomaniacal Kaprice. The female character, the primary character, of the Indigo section of
Death’s Heart
.”

“Indigo section?” Darryl dropped her hand. “There’s
no
such part. The book has five sections. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, and
Blue
.”

“Your copy does,” she said. “Mine has Indigo. An apocryphal chapter. It’s where I lifted the lyrics for Harold and Harmony’s song.”

Darryl had no words. His mouth and throat were dry. His headache sprawled, scratching-clawing-
pinching
on all sides of his skull.

“But,” Veronica said, “to quote a once-popular, now-forgotten singer, ‘What are words for if no one listens anymore?’” She smiled and turned her back to him.

Darryl hesitated before following her off the footbridge.

As they began up a long, curving set of steps, his thoughts were a scribble. He was having a hard time reconciling the idea that the very book on which he’d based his beliefs and actions for the last couple of years was incomplete. It just couldn’t be true. He had many questions beyond the most obvious one, but he kept silent.

The couple stepped onto a sidewalk bordering a section of Holland Lane a block away from where they’d entered the park. Veronica maintained a pace of three steps in front of him. The trees to the left of them provided a good strip of shade, but as far as Darryl was concerned, they could’ve been walking on lava. He couldn’t stay silent any longer.

“Veronica. I have to see this book. I need to read it, study it.”