Authors: Edward Lee
City Infernal (5 page)
Her bathroom was pretty cool too. A brass ring-shower hung above the original claw-foot sliptub. A framed chevaldefrise mirror was mounted in more original brass over a pedestal marble sink. Cassie took a cool, leisurely shower, then meandered around for a while as she dressed. Her room, like most of the estate’s rooms, was enormous—all dark paneling, hand-carved friezework, and intricately embossed brass-and-tin ceiling tiles. Sometimes she felt tiny in its near emptiness; she’d brought no furniture from home, electing to settle for the few furnishings that were already here. The big four-poster—more like a Renaissance Revival bed—an antique chiffonier, and a simple table and cane chair, and that was it. It was all she needed, and she’d declined on her father’s offer to furnish the room however she liked, just as she’d declined on his offer to buy her an exorbitant stereo. Her boombox would do just fine. The only other things she’d brought from their former D.C. brownstone were her clothes and CDs.
She’d never felt comfortable with the luxuries her father could effortlessly provide, and that had been a great bone of contention between them for years. Most of her clothes she made herself, with Good Will scraps and overstock fabrics; she’d become quite a designer, and she supposed that’s what she might want to be when she “grew up,” whatever that meant. But she knew she needn’t worry about any of that until she got her head straight.
She still quite often felt the smothering guilt of her sister’s suicide; some part of her spirit felt branded. Since the incident, she’d taken to wearing a silver locket with Lissa’s picture inside; she never took it off, and every day she’d plead to herself,
Please, Lissa, please forgive me.
The dreams, she supposed, were punishment, but perhaps forgiveness was coming. Out here, the nightmares had declined and so had her depression.
Please, Lissa, please forgive me.
The dreams, she supposed, were punishment, but perhaps forgiveness was coming. Out here, the nightmares had declined and so had her depression.
Would she ever be free?
I don’t deserve to be,
she thought.
I don’t deserve to be,
she thought.
Sometimes the days would start like this, steeped in remorse. She even hated looking in the mirror—of course—because every time she’d see Lissa. She’d cut her long hair straight across at the middle of her neck, dyed it lemon-yellow with lime-green highlight lines. It helped a little, but her face was still the same; it was still Lissa who looked back at her through the silver veins. In the mirror, she inadvertently noticed the tiny rainbow tattoo over her navel, which only reminded her of the barbed-wire tattoo her sister had in the same place.
Damn it,
she thought.
Not again.
She was getting depressed, and if she just hung around the house, it would only get worse.
she thought.
Not again.
She was getting depressed, and if she just hung around the house, it would only get worse.
“I think I’ll go somewhere,” she said aloud, “even if there’s no place to go.”
She grabbed her Discman and swept out of the room. As she descended the broad stairs, statues scowled at her, backlighted in strange dark colors from the stained glass. She scowled back, and gave one the finger.
You have a good day too.
At the landing, her hand squealed around a carven newel post; she looked into the living room and saw that the television was off. She checked the kitchen, the study, and the back patio but found no sign of her father.
You have a good day too.
At the landing, her hand squealed around a carven newel post; she looked into the living room and saw that the television was off. She checked the kitchen, the study, and the back patio but found no sign of her father.
Hmm.
In the foyer, Mrs. Conner was dusting. Cassie’s father had hired her from town to keep the house clean. She was a nice, quiet hill woman, all business. Probably in her fifties but a lifetime of hard work had kept her in good shape. Cassie liked her; she never gaped at her bright hair or dark Gothy apparel like most of the locals. Cassie wasn’t too keen, though, on the woman’s son, Jervis, who came around a few times a week to take care of the yard. Jervis was pure-bred redneck, about twenty-five, and drunk half the time. He tended to leer at her through a shucksy grin, constantly adjusting his Red Fox chewing tobacco hat. Fat and broad-shouldered, he delighted in telling her far-fetched stories about local murders, hoping to scare her. “Had a brother, Tritt was his name. Got kilt in the woods,” he’d told her once. “Couldn’t reka-nize him when they brung him out.”
“Your point being?” Cassie said somewhat rudely.
“Stay out the woods, girl,” Jervis had replied.
Cassie laughed.
Tragic as losing a sibling was, Mrs. Conner had told her what really happened, “My son Tritt weren’t much fer smarts. Chugged a bottle’a shine one night and up’n died.”
At any rate, Jervis was a bane but she supposed he was tolerable.
“Mornin’, miss,” the woman greeted without looking up from her dusting.
“Hi, Mrs. Conner. Have you seen my father?”
Her feather duster gestured the door. “Out front in the court, goin’ someplace. Didn’t say where, though.”
“Thank you. ”
Ah, a woman of few words.
Cassie went out through the great, sidelighted front door, sided by high ionic pillars. Later-morning immediately exhaled a gust of humid heat in her face.
God! It’s hotter than a Dutch oven out here!
When she re-closed the massive front door, the odd knocker on the center stile caught her eye: an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features.
Neat!
Cassie thought.
God! It’s hotter than a Dutch oven out here!
When she re-closed the massive front door, the odd knocker on the center stile caught her eye: an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features.
Neat!
Cassie thought.
Past the portico, her father was loping away down a flagstone trail.
“Hi, Dad!”
His hand extended.
“Bye, Dad.”
He turned around, sweating already in the heat. A ludicrous fisherman’s hat looked jammed down on his head. “I’m going down to the creek,” he called back, brandishing his collapsible fishing rod.
“Rednecks probably pee in that creek,” she jested.
“Naw, from what I can see they just pee in the street. I’ll be bringing back a bunch of catfish.” He paused, scratched his head. “Do you know how to cook catfish?”
“Sure. I’ll cook ‘em, but you have to gut ’em.”
“No problem. It’ll make me feel like a lawyer again. What are you up to this morning, honey?”
She frowned at the
honey.
“I’m bored, so I think I’ll walk into town ... and be
more
bored.”
honey.
“I’m bored, so I think I’ll walk into town ... and be
more
bored.”
He gestured toward the Cadillac. “Take the car.”
“No, I want to walk.”
“But it’s ten miles!”
“It’s three miles, Dad. I want to walk. Besides, my fragile urbanbred constitution craves all of this stagnant, searing, mosquito-infested country air.”
“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? It’s just like D.C.—only with no buildings.”
She squinted at him, disapprovingly. “What’s that in your top pocket?”
He guiltily covered the pocket. “Just a box of ... Altoids.”
“Yeah, right, and I groove on Frankie Goes To Hollywood. You told me you quit smoking, Dad. Two heart attacks aren’t enough?”
He sputtered, caught cold. “Look, I don’t give you crap anymore about your Kool-Aid-colored hair and your Maryland Mansion clothes. So don’t give me crap about a few cigarettes a day.”
“Fine, Dad. First of all, it’s Marilyn Manson. Second, next week when your aorta explodes against a cork of cholesterol deposits and you fall down kicking and gasping and clutching your chest and your heart stops beating because blood can’t get to it anymore and you’re foaming at the mouth and swallowing your tongue and your face turns the color of beets and you friggin’ DIE ... do I inherit this giant eyesore of a house?”
He smiled wide, parted his hands like a prophet before a congregation. “One day, honey—all this will be yours. Have a good time in town!”
“Bye.”
He lumbered off down the trail, stumbling in his clunky hip-waders; Cassie chuckled after him.
He’s such a dork... but a good dork.
He’s such a dork... but a good dork.
Since moving here, for sure, they’d both changed for the better. No more awful arguments over conformity and hairstyles. No more blow-ups about her black clothes or his cold conservatism.
I’m all he’s got left,
she realized,
and he’s all
I’ve
got left.
she realized,
and he’s all
I’ve
got left.
Cassie rarely felt encouraged about anything, but she genuinely
was
encouraged by how well things seemed to be going. He was making a diligent effort to compromise about her ways, which made it so much easier for her to do the same. However square, her father was a good man, and now he was trying to fix himself up for them both. She and Lissa had blamed him terribly when their mother had left; it was a natural pre-pubescent over-reaction. Daddy’s always at work and he doesn’t care about us or Mommy anymore. That’s why she left us.
was
encouraged by how well things seemed to be going. He was making a diligent effort to compromise about her ways, which made it so much easier for her to do the same. However square, her father was a good man, and now he was trying to fix himself up for them both. She and Lissa had blamed him terribly when their mother had left; it was a natural pre-pubescent over-reaction. Daddy’s always at work and he doesn’t care about us or Mommy anymore. That’s why she left us.
The truth was her mother was an uptown gold-digger, and she’d left them all cold for another—even richer—man. Cassie knew that now. She only hoped that her father’s retirement would finally help him be happy. After all the tragedy in his life, he certainly deserved that.
When she stepped off the front stone steps, the portico’s shade retreated. She’d dressed light today—a sheer black sarong and cotton tank top, and good old fashioned flipflops—but after only minutes outside, the heat was basting her.
Get used to it,
she thought.
Never had a suntan in my life
—
now’s my chance.
Get used to it,
she thought.
Never had a suntan in my life
—
now’s my chance.
Halfway down the front hill, she looked back up at the house. It
loomed
before her, immense, brooding and Dickensian even in the high sunlight. But she laughed when she looked at the south dormer wing: her father had ridiculously placed Washington Redskins plaques in all the windows, and another sore thumb was the bright-white satellite-tv dish on the highest parapet; her father could live without the routine of a big city, but he couldn’t live without SportsCenter,
Crossfire,
and E! Channel. It was funny how he pretended to be paring down his life, as if to turn away from previous indulgences. Once he’d come back from the general store, where he’d bought a bag of dried pinto beans. “Only thirty-five cents a pound,” he’d bragged. “Am I cutting down or what?”
loomed
before her, immense, brooding and Dickensian even in the high sunlight. But she laughed when she looked at the south dormer wing: her father had ridiculously placed Washington Redskins plaques in all the windows, and another sore thumb was the bright-white satellite-tv dish on the highest parapet; her father could live without the routine of a big city, but he couldn’t live without SportsCenter,
Crossfire,
and E! Channel. It was funny how he pretended to be paring down his life, as if to turn away from previous indulgences. Once he’d come back from the general store, where he’d bought a bag of dried pinto beans. “Only thirty-five cents a pound,” he’d bragged. “Am I cutting down or what?”
“Yeah, Dad,” she’d agreed, “you’re really tightening up the budget. Good for you.”
Then a knock had come at the door, and her father had rushed off. “It’s the FedEx truck. I special ordered some fresh New Zealand lobster tails and Ossetra caviar....”
Yeah, he’s cutting down, all right.
Now Cassie appraised the massive edifice a moment more, then nodded contentedly.
This is my home now.
she realized. And she liked it.
This is my home now.
she realized. And she liked it.
She slid on her earphones, cranked on some Rob Zombie, and started walking toward town.
She never noticed the face peering down at her from the oculus window in the estate’s highest garret.
(II)Blackwell Hall existed in an odd uncharted rurality jammed into Virginia’s southwestern-most tip. Cassie, deciding to cut through the wooded acreage rather than take the road, found herself half-lost pretty quickly, the short journey into town turning into an hours-long march through stifling heat and brambles. Twice she saw snakes, and ran away in alarm, and when she’d turned onto a thin trail, she’d nearly walked right into a fattened woodchuck. It stared back at her, with huge yellow teeth, and in the distance, she heard wild dogs snarling.
Needless to say, she wasn’t enthused about the wildlife.
But she found herself slowly favoring the natural landscapes and robust woodlands to the cement and asphalt of the city. The environ reminded her of the Faulkner she’d read in school, people and places so far removed from mainstream society, untouched by anything that could be called modem.
It’s like walking into a different world,
she thought.
It’s like walking into a different world,
she thought.
It was late afternoon by the time she actually arrived at her destination. Ryan’s Comer could hardly be called a town at all: an intersection bereft of a single stoplight, sprouting a hodge-podge of ramshackle shops, a Grey-hound stop, and a postal annex not much larger than a mini-van. Several miles north an actual municipality could be found—Luntville—which seemed nearly as desolate but at least they had a grocery store and a police department. The nearest real city would be Pulaski—a hundred miles away.
Cassie sweltered at the intersection. She squinted, astonished, at a wooden sign that read WELCOME TO RYAN’S CORNER, HOME OF THE BEST POSSUM SAUSAGE IN THE SOUTH.
You gotta be shitting me,
she thought.
she thought.
Beyond, sporadic trailer homes seemed to wend their way through trees up into the foothills, many without power lines, and the exclusivity of out-houses made it clear that public sewage and domestic water lines weren’t taken for granted. Cassie couldn’t imagine people living in such extremes. In these parts, poverty and simply doing without were the status quo. It almost shocked her.
“The Boondocks lives,” she muttered to herself. “This place is a cliché.” Decades-old pickup trucks sat tireless atop cinder-blocks. A flop-faced old hound dog loped lazily across the street, tongue hanging. Ancient men in overalls sat fixed in store-front rocking chairs, ringing spittoons with expertise or puffing on corn-cob pipes, as they creaked another day away.
This place makes Petticoat Junction look like Montreal,
she thought. When she crossed the street, the old men all looked up at once, their empty-sack faces leaning forward as if two buses had suddenly crashed in front of them. Even the dog looked at her, barked once very feebly, and loped on.
This place makes Petticoat Junction look like Montreal,
she thought. When she crossed the street, the old men all looked up at once, their empty-sack faces leaning forward as if two buses had suddenly crashed in front of them. Even the dog looked at her, barked once very feebly, and loped on.
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