Galilee (74 page)

They'd almost all of them passed away, of course, and many times he'd been thereto witness their last moments: their tears, their pathetic prayers, their desperate hope for redemption. Why hadn't he learned the lessons of those departures? Why hadn't he changed his life, seeing what death was like? Defied his masters, and dared go home to look for forgiveness?

Why, in the end, was he alone, and frightened, when he'd been born into certainties the faiths of the world would have given all their dogmas and their holy books to taste?

There was only one face he could bring to mind without agony; only one soul he hadn't betrayed. He said her name as the disc of the sun touched the sea, and the last phase of its descent, and his, began.

“Rachel,” he murmured. “Wherever you are . . . I love you . . .”

Then he closed his eyes.

G
arrison Geary stood in his grandfather's bedroom and surveyed the scene before him with a tic of exhilaration in his belly. It was hard to suppress his happiness, but he was doing his best. He'd made a brief, somber statement to the press, explaining that nobody yet knew the precise circumstances of Cadmus Geary's passing, but that it hadn't come as any great surprise to anyone. He'd then gone on to spend a frustrating hour with Loretta, in which he'd attempted to get her to tell him what had taken place in the house. There were plenty of rumors flying, he told her; the din of destruction had been audible a block away. Wouldn't it be better if she told him the truth, so that he could present the facts to the authorities and the press in a suitably doctored form, rather than their being reduced to speculation like everyone else? She couldn't help him, she said; she simply didn't remember. Whatever the nature of the cataclysm, it had driven all recollection out
of her head. Maybe it would all come back, given time. But right now, he and the police and the press would have to invent their own answers to whatever questions they had.

All this was fabrication, of course; she didn't even attempt to make it sound particularly plausible. She just mouthed the words, and defied him to contradict her. He chose not to challenge her, at least for now. He could afford to wait. Lord knows, he'd learned patience, playing the supplicant grandchild while Cadmus held on to his life and his power. Now the old bastard was gone, and Loretta was almost out of cards to play. The only thing she had left in her hand was the truth; and being the cool player she was she'd hold on to it for as long as she could. It would avail her nothing. Events would move quickly now, and before she knew it the card she held would be valueless. He'd pluck it out of her fingers, for curiosity's sake, when she was out of the game completely.

Mitchell came to join him in the bedroom.

“I had a few words with Jocelyn,” he said. “She always liked me.”

“So?”

“So I got her to tell me what happened.” Mitchell wandered over to the old man's bed, milking the moment for all it was worth. “For one thing, Rachel was here.”

“So what?” Garrison said, with a shrug. “She's an irrelevance, Mitchell. For God's sake start treating her like one.”

“Don't you think it's suspicious that she was here?”

“Suspicious how?”

“Maybe she's working with whoever did this. Maybe she let them in. Then helped them get away.”

Garrison stared at his brother with that waxwork look of his. “Whoever did this,” he said slowly, “does not need help from your fucking wife, Mitchell. Do you understand me?”

“Don't talk to me that way,”
Mitchell said, jabbing his finger in his brother's direction. “I'm not an imbecile and neither's Rachel. She got hold of the journal, remember that.”

Garrison ignored the remark.

“What else did Jocelyn tell you?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“That's all you got out of her?”

“That's more than you got out of Loretta.”

“Fuck Loretta.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that we might be underestimating these people—”

“Let it go.”

“No, you listen to me. They could be conspiring behind our backs.”

“Let 'em. What the fuck can a couple of women do?”

“You don't know Rachel.”

“Yes I do,” Garrison said wearily. “I've seen her type over and over. She's nobody. Anything she has, you gave her, this family gave her. She's not worth
one minute
of our time.” With this he turned his back on his brother, and walked away. He was almost at the door when very quietly Mitchell said:

“I can't get her out of my mind. I want to. I know what you say is right. But I can't stop thinking about her.”

Garrison stopped and, after a moment, pivoted on his heel to face Mitchell again. “Oh,” he said, very slowly. He regarded his brother with a new sympathy. “What do you want to hear?” he said. “Do you want me to tell you it's okay to get her back? If that's what you really want. Go get her.”

“I don't know how,” Mitchell said. His anger had drained away completely; suddenly he was Garrison's little brother, desperate for guidance. “I don't even know why I want her. I mean, you're right: She's a nobody. She's
nothing.
But when I think of her with that . . . animal . . .”

Garrison smiled, comforted. “Oh I see. It's Galilee.”

“I don't want her near him. I don't even want her
thinking
about him.”

“You can't stop her thinking.” He paused for a moment, the smile still on his lips. “Well . . . you can, but you probably don't want to go that far.”

“I've thought about it,” Mitchell said. “Believe me. I've thought about it.”

“That's how it starts,” Garrison said. “You think about it and you think about it and one day the opportunity presents itself. And you do it.” Mitchell stared at the littered carpet. Garrison stared at Mitchell. There was a long silence. Finally Garrison said: “Is that what you want?”

“I don't know.”

“So think about it some more.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“No. I mean:
yes, that's what I want.”
He was shaking. Still staring at the ground, and shaking. “I want to know nobody is ever going to have her but me. I married her; I made her into something.” He looked up now, his eyes wet. “Didn't I? Didn't I make her into something?”

“You don't have to convince me, Mitch,” Garrison said, oh-so-gently. “It's like I said: just a question of the right opportunity.”

“I made her into something and she turned her fucking back on me as though I was nothing.”

“You want to punish her for that. Of course. It's natural.”

“What do I do?”

“Well for one thing, you find out where she is. Make nice to her.”

“What the hell for?”

“So she doesn't suspect anything.”

“Okay.”

“And then we'll sit down after the old man's buried and we'll work out how to get this sorted out for you.”

“I'd like that.”

Garrison opened his arms. “Come here,” he said. Mitchell went to him. Garrison hugged him tight. “I'm glad you told me,” he said, his mouth against his brother's cheek. “I didn't realize how much you were hurting.”

“She just treated me like shit.”

Garrison patted his back. “It's okay,” he said. “I understand. It's okay. We've got a long way to go, you and me. And I want you happy.”

“I know you do.”

“So whatever it takes to make it better, that's what we'll do. You've got my word on that, okay? Whatever it takes.”

L
ater, Garrison went to see a lady whose company he hadn't kept in several weeks: his lovely and ever-accommodating Melodie. It was thoroughly relaxing to keep such quiet company after the stresses of the day. He watched her lying there for fully half an hour, touching her chilly feet now and again; her thighs, her belly; slipping his fingers into her pussy. Lord, she was good at her job. Not once did she flinch, even when he rolled her over and roughly fucked her ass.

When he'd shot his load into her he didn't leave, as he would normally have done. He went into the narrow lime-green bathroom and washed his dick and his reddened neck, then returned to sit and look at her for a while longer. In rolling her over he'd crushed the flowers around her body, and their perfume seemed to quicken all his senses. Her skin looked almost luminous to him, the brandy he sipped contained nuances of flavor he could not remember tasting before; even the glass was silky against his fingertips.

What was happening to him? It was as though there was some kind of transformation about to take place; as though the Garrison he'd been—the dogged, nose-to-the-grindstone Garrison whose presence had never truly inspired anybody, least of all himself—was about to be sloughed off like a dead skin, and something else show itself: something brighter, stronger, stranger.

It was surely no coincidence that this other self was only coming out of hiding now that Cadmus was dead. The old regime was finished. Its rules, its hypocrisies, its limitations were a thing of the past. It was time for something new to make itself known; to impress its visions upon the world. And that something was moving in him—deep, deep in him—tantalizing his senses with the bliss that would come when it made itself known.

Yes, of course a corner of him was afraid of the prospect. Any transfiguration was a kind of death; a passing away of what had been in order to make room for what was to come. But he wouldn't be losing anything he'd much cared for. The man known as Garrison Geary had been a construct; he'd learned by example—much of it Cadmus's—how to present a bland, civil face to people so as to distract their attention from his real motives. Naively enough, he'd assumed those motives were identical to those of his mentor: the advancement of the family, the accrual of wealth and power and influence.

Now he knew better; and what more perfect place to come to that realization than here, where he'd showed a truer face than he'd ever shown his family? Shown it, but been unseen, because its only witness had never opened her eyes.

Perhaps it was time. He set down his brandy glass, got up off the chair, and went over to the bed. The woman remained as still as stone. He reached across her body, hooked his hands beneath her, and rolled her over onto her back. She rolled most convincingly. He went down on his haunches, and lay his hand, palm down, on her stomach.

“The game's over . . .” he said.

She didn't move. He lifted his hand off her belly and laid it against her breast.

“I can feel your heart,” he said. “You're good at what you do, but I can always feel your heart.” He leaned close to her. “Open your eyes.” He tweaked her nipple. “No more playing dead. I'm resurrecting you.”

A tiny frown nicked her brow.

“You've been wonderful,” he went on, “really. Very convincing. But I don't want to play any more.”

She opened her eyes.

“Brown,” he said. “Your eyes are brown. I always thought they'd be blue.”

“You're done with me?” the woman said. Her voice was slightly slurred. Perhaps she played the corpse so well because she was in a drugged state.

“I'll be done with you when I tell you I'm done with you,” Garrison said, “not before.”

“You said you didn't want to play any more.”

“Not that game,” he said. “Another.”

“What?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“I'm not letting you mess with me—”

Garrison laughed, so hard and loud the whore gaped. Then he reached out and took hold of her breast. “I can do what the fuck I like to you. I'm paying for your company. And you're very expensive.”

She visibly brightened at the mention of her commercial value. “What do you want?” she said, looking down at his hand, the fingers of which were digging deep into her breast.

“Look at me.”

“What?”

“Just look at me. At my eyes. Look into my eyes.”

She let out a halfhearted giggle, like a little girl playing a naughty game. The incongruity of it made Garrison smile. “What's your name?” he said. “Your real name.”

“Melodie's my real name,” she replied. “My mother says it's because I was singing to myself even before I was baptized.”

“Your mother's still alive?”

“Oh sure. She moved to Kentucky. I'm going to move there too, as soon as I get enough money. I want to get out of New York. I hate it.”

With his newly sharpened sight Garrison seemed to be able to see right into her as she spoke. She was bruised to the marrow, poor bitch; whatever hopes she'd ever had for herself gone to hell.

“What would you do in Kentucky?” he said.

“Oh . . . I'd like to have a little hairdressing place. I'm good at fixing people's hair.”

“Really?”

“But . . . I don't . . .” The words slid away.

“Listen to me,” Garrison said, his hand going up to her face. “If you want something you have to have faith. And patience. Things come when you least expect them.”

“That's what I used to think. But it's not true. It's a waste of time hoping for things.”

Garrison suddenly stood up, his motion so abrupt Melodie flinched. He gave her reason: a blow across the face so hard she fell back onto the bed. A sob escaped her, but she didn't try to move out of his range.

“I shoulda known,” she said. She raised her head off the bed. Tears of shock ran from the corners of her eyes, but she didn't otherwise seem concerned. She'd been struck before, many times. It had its price, like everything. “You leave marks, and it'll cost you,” she said. She sat up again, presenting her face to him. “It'll cost you big time,” she said.