The Savage Kind

by John Copenhaver

  He stood, taking Elaine by her arm. “The girls are leaving.”

  She dropped her needlepoint. “Oh,” she mumbled, then with unexpected petulance, “Let me go!” and pulled away from him.

  As I rose, I picked up the frame, glancing at the design. It wasn’t a type of bird after all—it was some sort of leaping animal, perhaps a tiger or some kind of big cat. I handed it back to Elaine, and the woman’s eyes brightened. “Thank you,” she said meekly, murmuring as an afterthought, “Tyger Tyger, burning bright…” Wasn’t that from one of Miss Martins’s favorite Blake poems? But the thought vanished when Elaine jolted me back to the overly flowered parlor, commenting, “You’re such a nice girl. I’m glad you were Cleve’s friend.” I ached for her and wanted to say something kind, but nothing came, so I smiled.

  “They’re leaving.” Mr. Closs scowled. “Right now.”

  She raised her hand to my cheek. “I hope you’ll come to the funeral this Saturday,” she said. She glanced at Judy but didn’t extend the invitation to her.

  JUDY, NOVEMBER 2, 1948

  As soon as we were in the Closses’ parlor, Philippa turned sheet-white, began perspiring, and started giving me big eyes. She’d recognized him. Closs was the man in Miss M’s apartment. The gray ghost. Of course he was—and probably worse! And we were getting somewhere until Elaine, high as a kite, cranked up the music and began careening around the room, babbling about a bird or something. Was it for show? A distraction? Then, she invited Philippa to Cleve’s funeral, but not me. She made a point of it. What was that about?

  Shaking it off, I focused on my next question for Closs: “Did Cleve know something about our teacher, Miss M? Do you have some connection to her? Is that what all this is about?”

  Philippa snapped her head around.

  Elaine clutched her needlepoint to her chest.

  Closs stepped toward me, looming, his prominent eyebrows and Cro-Magnon forehead jutting out. “It’s time to go.”

  “And what about this?” I said sharply, snatching Miss M’s art deco moon pin out of my pocket. “We found it in her apartment, smashed. She wore it at school all the time. Was it something you gave her?”

  Elaine recoiled, and Closs grabbed me above the elbows, his eyes locked on mine, and jerked me toward him. He was strong, and for the first time, I was scared of him. He stared at me for a beat, eyes trembling, and growled, “Go!”

  Elaine croaked, “Howard!”

  “I’m not asking again,” he shouted, spit flying. His fingers dug into my upper arms, and he began dragging me toward the door. I bared my teeth, flung my arms around like a maniac—maybe crazy is catching—kicked his shins, and tore away. Flushed and panting, we circled each other like wild animals at an impasse. The hyper piano and blazing sax roared along like a stampede about to level us. His features narrowed like he was trying to concentrate, to impress a feeling on me, or send a telepathic message. I tried to read him. Was he angry? Afraid? Desperate? Sad? Whatever it was, it wasn’t coming through, and I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there.

  Philippa’s hand was in mine, gripping me, tugging at me. She was pleading, “Let’s go! Let’s go!” I didn’t move at first. Closs’s eyes were glassy, brimming, and a tear streaked down his cheek. A tear! What the hell? Bewildered and light-headed, I gave in and allowed myself to be pulled out of the room. Philippa tore our coats, hats, and scarves off the rack, and we flew out the front door.

  PHILIPPA, NOVEMBER 2, 1948

  Judy flung open the window and gulped in the icy air, and I flopped in the chair beside her bed. As my mind slowed its spinning, my eyes fell on the miniature sheep, shepherds, and shepherdesses that floated across the room’s misty-green wallpaper. Clearly Edith’s decorating choice. Above Judy’s headboard, a shepherdess with blond curls reclined on a log, dreamily staring out. She was repeated across the walls every four feet or so, but this one was different, which I’m sure is why I noticed her. Judy had filled in her big blue eyes with black pen, transforming them into gaping holes. Commentary, I’m sure. On her dresser, continuing the pastoral theme, a ceramic shepherd and shepherdess surveyed the green carpet. As I studied them, I noticed they’d been broken in several places; the shepherdess’s arm extended out at an odd angle grasping a missing crook, and a fissure along the neck of the shepherd gave away his past trauma. I imagined Judy smashing them, and Edith dutifully, even desperately, sticking them back together. If you removed Rosie’s dingy dog bed, the line of postcards and knickknacks on the fireplace mantle, the record collection and player, and the stack of novels at her bed side, the room revealed its original purpose: a nursery. And its intended occupant, Jackie. Despite all her fury, it seemed like Judy had only put a slight dent in Edith’s delusion.

  Judy shut the window, stretched out on the window seat, and said, “So, Closs is the gray ghost.”

  “That cologne! He must bathe in the stuff.”

  “You should’ve seen the look on your face.” She dropped her mouth open, doing an exaggerated version of me, and smirked. “You looked like you had seen a real ghost.”

  I still felt wobbly from the ordeal. “I didn’t know what to do. Fight or flight?”

  “What about Elaine Closs? Is she a dope fiend or what?”

  “If you were married to that—to him—you’d take anything you could get your hands on.”

  She sighed. “I’d just shove him in front of a streetcar.”

  I didn’t doubt she’d try.

  Judy studied her feet, which she’d propped up on the window’s molding. “I get why he might force himself on Miss M. He’s just a jilted lover or a crazed sex addict or something conspicuous like that. But I don’t get why he’d kill his own son. What’s the motive?”

  While Judy pondered the question, picking at a loose thread on her sweater, I thought about Miss Martins before her ordeal, about our conversations, about what college I might go to, about literary last names, and even sordid boons. I remembered the dreamy lilt of her voice, her graceful gestures, her beauty, particularly when she was still reading or grading at her desk, the light pouring in from the tall classroom windows. She could’ve been a mentor to me, someone like my mother, someone who understood me. We have to find her.

  “Everything keeps taking us back to Miss Martins and her spat with Cleve,” I said, ending the lull. “She knows something.”

  Judy twisted toward me, a wedge of straight black hair falling across her dark cheek. “If she does, she’s in danger. Now that Closs knows that we know he’s connected to her he’ll go after her. I shouldn’t have shown him the pin. That was damn stupid. Once he discovers that I didn’t tell my theory about Bogdan to Paulson, he’ll… stalk… us again.”

  “Who is Paulson?” I asked.

  “The lead detective on Jackie’s case. He’s also been consulted on Cleve’s case. I overheard Bart and Edith talking about him.”

  “Mentioning him was quick thinking.”

  Looking up through her bangs, she smiled. “Howard—no, Howeirdo Closs never looked guiltier.”

  My stomach growled. “It’s dinnertime,” I said, standing up. “I should go.”

  “B and E are in the kitchen, so just slip out the front,” Judy said, getting to her feet. “Tomorrow, we find Miss M.”

  I let myself out of the room, but stopped at the top of the staircase. Edith was in the hall below, wrapped in a dark shawl, standing in front of Jackie’s portrait and a fresh spray of lilies. She hadn’t seen me approach, so she remained motionless, staring at the display. She must’ve just arranged the flowers. My first impulse was to dash back to the room, but something about catching her in a private moment, the strange doubleness of staring at someone staring at something else, made me linger. She lifted her hand to her mouth and held it there. As if participating in a psychic relay, I felt a rush of sadness, too. It was a horrific thing that had happened to Jackie and to her.

  I was aware of Judy beside me.

  As if she had a sixth sense, Ed
ith looked up and frowned. “Girls, come here at once.”

  Judy groaned, and we went downstairs.

  The well-oiled antiques that had been shoved to the edges of the parlor for the party had been returned to their original positions as if a fussy poltergeist had tidied up. Flames flickered in the fireplace, throwing faint shadows across the walls. Bart was slumped in his chair, a tumbler of whiskey dangling between thumb and forefinger. He was a weary prizefighter against the ropes, struggling to stay vertical.

  “Sit,” Edith said, pointing at a dainty settee. “We need to chat.” She walked behind Bart, gripping the back of his chair. Against her high cheekbones and up-tilted chin, the shifting light from the fireplace gave her a diabolical cast. Gone was the heartbroken mother. In her place, another woman, intense, shield out and sword drawn.

  Judy refused to move. I didn’t know whether to sit or stand, so in solidarity, I remained standing.

  Bart sipped his whiskey. “You shouldn’t have done that, either of you,” he said gloomily. “You’ve upset a lot of people.”

  “What’d we do?” Judy said, puffing out a bit.

  “You harassed the Closses,” Edith said, placing her hand below her onyx choker. “You spewed absurd accusations at them. Jesus, how could you be so insensitive?”

  Bart raised his eyebrows as if to echo the question.

  “How did you find out?” Judy said, keeping her voice even.

  “They rang just a few minutes ago,” Bart said. “They know who you are, of course. They know about Jackie’s case.” The ice cube in his glass clinked.

  “Mr. Closs is a bad man!” I blurted, immediately embarrassed. “It’s obvious.”

  “Don’t waste your breath,” Judy said. “They won’t listen. They’ve decided Bogdan is their man. That’s the story that works for them, so they’ll stick to it.”

  “Tell me,” Edith challenged, holding her chin up, “Why are you so sure he’s innocent? What’s your proof?”

  “He was framed for Cleve’s murder,” Judy said with the slightest tremor. “I can’t prove it, but I know it. Closs sent him that yearbook and paid the dock master to ‘discover’ it.”

  “Let me get this right,” Bart said, his small eyes becoming incredulous slits. “You’re suggesting that he killed his own son and framed Bogdan for it?”

  Judy didn’t move.

  “Ha!” Edith scoffed, waving her hand at us. “So, you expect us to believe that… what? He used Jackie’s case to cover up his son’s murder? That’s absurd. So much time has passed. And how would he have known about the undisclosed evidence? Explain that to me. Hmm?”

  It’s a good point. I’ll give her that. Linking Cleve’s murder to Jackie’s is an effective way to shift the police’s focus away from him, but of all the possible crimes, why choose hers? And how did he know what was written on her body? It’s a stretch. It makes more sense that Bogdan did both. After all, he’s the one with the nutty tribute to Shirley Temple. But what about Mr. Closs’s reaction to us; he seemed so unnerved, so guilty. And we know he attacked Miss Martins.

  Moving out from behind Bart’s chair, Edith continued: “Bogdan has been officially charged. We’ll be attending his arraignment tomorrow.”

  Judy locked eyes on her, the muscles in her jaw rippling. She was furious, but also frightened. I thought about Edith’s repairing of the smashed shepherd and shepherdess and, I imagine, insisting that they remain in Judy’s room. There they stood, guardians at the shrine to Jackie. Judy hadn’t won that battle, had she?

  “Cleveland’s funeral is on Saturday, and Bart and I will be going to pay our respects. Judy, we want you to go and apologize to the Closses. Philippa, we’d like you to do the same. We haven’t contacted your father and stepmother, but if you refuse, we’ll be forced to. It’s the right thing to do. We believe you are big enough to admit when you’re wrong. Isn’t that right, husband?”

  “Yes,” he said, stymieing a yawn.

  “Fuck you,” Judy growled. “Fuck both of you.”

  Bart snapped to and rose from his chair.

  Judy’s dark eyes blazed. “I refuse to apologize to that evil goon—”

  Edith stepped forward, and in a single fluid movement, as if practiced many times like a tennis swing, slapped Judy. “What were we thinking?” she snarled, her complexion bright and indignant, and her lips trembling. “Why did we bring this… this castaway into our lives? We gave her the best of homes, all the privileges of our social station, access to a world she never would’ve had otherwise, but she’s thankless. She hasn’t healed us, Bart! She’s worse than no daughter at all!”

  “Listen, Edie,” Bart said, his jowly face drooping. “You don’t mean that.” He reached out to touch her, and she swatted his hand away.

  “I do,” she said coldly. The quiet mournfulness that I observed from the top of the stairs had melted into cruelty.

  Judy stared at the floor, the vehemence knocked out of her. I wanted to rush her out of the room, to console her, to hold her, but she’d surrounded herself with what felt like an impenetrable bubble. All of her railing against B and E, and her declarations of a post–eighteenth birthday transformation and name change seemed in peril. The Peabodys had real power over her. She needed them, their wealth.

  She looked up and, in a low simmer, said, “Maybe Jackie deserved to die.” Her voice cracked, as if as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. “Maybe you deserved me.” Her desire to inflict pain had overridden her need for self-preservation. I imagined her flinging the shepherd lamp across her room or scratching out the shepherdess’s eyeballs, converting her into a symbolic witness: “Look at the horrors I have to put up with. Look at what I have to do to survive.” Now, I’m that witness.

  Edith was speechless, and Bart bowed his head. The parlor’s floor seemed to be shattering like ice, about to plunge us all into a frigid river. Dazed, I searched for something to say, some salve for her wounds, but nothing came. Judy walked away, and after looking at the Peabodys accusatorially, I followed her upstairs to her room.

  JUDY, NOVEMBER 2, 1948

  When Philippa knocked on my door, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t face her. I collapsed on my bed and curled into a tight ball. “What happened to the Peabody girl?” they’d ask. “She imploded, and a black hole opened in her bedroom. Tragic, really.”

  I was a goddamn mess. My cheek stung, sure, but it was that whole bit about “the privileges” of her “social station” that sliced through my gut. She’d said things like that to me before—and there’s truth to it, I know—but saying it in front of Philippa, that was cruel. Any modicum of sympathy that I had dredged up for the woman now seems perverse.

  Money or no, when I turn eighteen, I’m leaving this house and changing my name. Miss M was right: “Nightingale” has a nice ring. “Introducing Miss Judith Nightingale. Judy to her friends. J. Nightingale to you.” J. Nightingale is a professional woman’s name, a real go-getter. She’s the sort that might work in publishing in New York, or open a rare books store in Chicago, or deal in art in Mexico City. She’ll wear smart outfits, black tams, sunglasses, and gloves up to her elbows. Or perhaps she’ll live differently, more hand-to-mouth, but with a zest for exotic experiences. She’ll book passage on an ocean liner and loaf on the Continent, picking up odd jobs, but enmeshing herself in the art scene, edging her way into café society, whatever that looks like these days. She won’t depend on anyone. She’ll just tap her cigarette, sip her gin, and appraise the world as it drifts by.

  PHILIPPA, NOVEMBER 2, 1948

  Since Judy didn’t respond to my knocking, I slowly opened her door. She was lying with her back to me, twisted into herself. I moved around the bed. Her head was resting on her arm. Her eyes—those shiny pinpoints—were now soft and bleary. She refused to acknowledge me. Her protective bubble was sealed tight around her. I felt terrible for her, but I feared that if I said the wrong thing, I might make it worse. I didn’t want to cause her more pain. As I started to pivot away, s
he shifted, uncurled her body, and said, “Don’t go.”

  I breathed out and sat on the edge of the bed. The bubble had lifted, but I didn’t want to trigger it again. For a moment, we listened to the soft creaks in the room and the sound of traffic, then she slid her fingers over to me and scooped up my hand. She turned it over and studied the contours of my palm. “You’re going to have a long life,” she said, more to herself. “Two husbands, five kids, ten dogs, a house in Chevy Chase. Boring.”

  “You read lifelines, do you?” I said.

  “Not a bit,” she said and released my hand. Her eyes glazed over.

  “What Edith did, it was vicious,” I said, stumbling, trying to wedge a metaphorical foot in her descending protective shell. Suddenly, she looked at me, full-on, her eyes alert. She bent toward me, her face inches from mine, her breath on my skin. Everything in me was prickling and alive, like a moth scratching out of its cocoon. I wanted her to kiss me, but her eyes flicked away.

  JUDY, NOVEMBER 2, 1948

  When she said that—“What Edith did, it was vicious”—she bent toward me, resting her hand on my upper arm, leaning in. She didn’t pity me. She admired me, and through that admiration, like an open window, I saw who she was. Her flipped strawberry curls, her creamy freckled skin, her naturally pink lips, and those slate-gray eyes—all those girlish qualities that annoyed me—were radiant, transformed. They glowed, not in and of themselves, but because underneath them was something hard and bright and true: her belief in me. I leaned into her, our faces inches away, but before I could kiss her, my body tensed. I didn’t know what to do. I looked away, then I gazed right at her, and whispered, “I hate Jackie. I fucking hate her.”