The Savage Kind

by John Copenhaver

  * * *

  PHILIPPA, NOVEMBER 2, 1948

  As she said it, my mouth collapsed into hers, our noses bumping. At first, nothing happened. Was it a chaste touching of lips? Then something in us dissolved, and we sank into a deep kiss. That horrible feverishness I’d felt for Thea Ray summers ago rushed in and, with it, the smut from Somerset’s. I imagined pushing back Judy’s collar and tracing her pale clavicle with my fingers. I wanted to reach under her blouse and cup her breasts, feeling her nipples graze my palms. I wanted to run my hand over her shoulders and down her arms, registering every scar, connecting them like I was plotting constellations. As I pressed close to her, the fantasy clawed its way out, wanting to be real.

  JUDY, NOVEMBER 2, 1948

  As Philippa pushed deeper into me, I returned the kiss, drunk, elated—but then my mind snagged me and began reeling me back. Where was this going? What’s next? Tugging at each other’s waistbands and necklines? Unbuttoning our blouses and unhooking our bras? Flattening flesh against flesh? Feeling each other up? Breaking the tension? No, it was too much. It was too fast, too new. I needed her to believe in me as I am: Judy Peabody becoming Judy Nightingale. If we continued, the alchemy of our relationship would change. We’d become something different to one another—or even something impossible: Two girls in love with one another. How would that work? So, I sank away from her as gently as I could, wrapping my sweater across my body and shifting back into the mound of pillows.

  She was deflated, but not destroyed.

  “You must be—” she said. “I can go.”

  I nodded, and she touched her lips absentmindedly.

  Before she opened the door to leave, she turned and, with absolute conviction, said, “I hate Jackie, too. For you.”

  PHILIPPA, NOVEMBER 2, 1948

  I don’t know what happens next. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a horrible thing. Does Judy hate me? Or love me? Is she frightened? Or inspired? What is she thinking now? Writing this feels dangerous and thrilling, like transcribing black magic, something I could be burned at the stake for. Imagine if Dad or Bonnie read this! But I need to record it, to know that it happened, even if seconds later, I might tear it up and light it on fire.

  JUDY, NOVEMBER 3, 1948

  The entire city was buzzing today. The election results came in, and it had a perfect twist ending. Truman defeated Dewey, even though the Chicago Daily Tribune blasted out a humiliating headline claiming the opposite. On our drive to the arraignment, a group of revelers haloed in a mist of booze, spilled in front of the cab waving Truman campaign posters. Edith tutted with dismay, which is pretty rich considering Bart’s love affair with gin. Or maybe she was just peeved because her candidate didn’t win.

  Journalists swarmed us as we stepped out, so I was relieved when we made it to the courtroom, which was calmer, just the murmur of people finding their seats. B and E were dressed to the nines: Bart in his best tweed suit, with a black and chartreuse diamond-patterned tie, and Edith with a fox-collared hunting jacket and felt hat reminiscent of a tricorn, sending a message to the accused: “You’ve put up quite a chase, but now you’re caught!” I wore a simple black sweater and skirt and pinned my bangs to the side. Edith and I still hadn’t spoken, deciding that weaponized silence was a more effective way of waging war. Bart stayed out of it; he was too focused on drying out and putting on his best face in the midst of this public ordeal.

  Down the aisle, Howard Closs and his mother Moira sat side by side. Elaine was absent, perhaps too hysterical—or drugged—to attend. Both wearing black, they also were dressed to make a statement. A long black feather swayed and bobbed above Moira’s toque. Closs’s broad shoulders formed a dark square in an otherwise bright room. I still couldn’t shake the look he’d given me, especially the tear. He’s guilty. I know it, but I don’t know how—or why.

  A door opened. Adrian Bogdan, flanked by uniformed guards, was escorted in. Heads spun around, and the room murmured with excitement. In the back row, however, two men in dark suits—one gaunt, the other thick-necked—remained unmoved, silent. Who were they? My attention then flitted to Bogdan’s lawyer, who stood to greet his client. He was a slight, cocky middle-aged man with a scrap of golden-brown hair and a very expensive suit. Bogdan can’t even afford a proper house. How can he shell out for this guy? The man of the hour was surprisingly handsome—a narrow, clean-shaven face; well-oiled dark hair; full lips; and jewel-like blue eyes—not the scruffy, bearded tramp I’d seen in photos. He wore a crisp, sapphire blue suit, which was so blue it was like he wanted it to scream, “I’m innocent! Really, I am!” None of this fit in with his squalid houseboat.

  The judge entered, and everyone rose. The upsweep of all the bodies thrilled me. The Honorable Warford J. Humblehold, a name ripped from the pages of Dickens, was presiding, and he looked the part: exaggerated waistline, bald head, bushy mustache, and sharp little eyes. All he needed was a pipe.

  The room simmered with anticipation. Everyone wanted to know how Bogdan would plead. Of course, B and E wanted a guilty plea. It would mean the beginning of the end of their nightmare. I wanted it over, too. Jackie is haunting all of us, her little lily-white hands around our throats, squeezing with all her might. Although they’d never say so, B and E want her gone as well. I recalled Philippa’s parting remark to me, “I hate Jackie, too. For you.” There it was, that gorgeous loyalty. Despite my doubts, I would’ve kissed her again just for that. I wished she could’ve come with me; we could’ve compared notes.

  Bogdan didn’t plead guilty. Of course. For one, he isn’t guilty, and for another, the yearbook is weak evidence. B and E are fooling themselves. What I wasn’t prepared for, though, was the sound of his voice—a smug, soulless purr. As he was escorted from the courtroom, he smiled, exposing his stained and ravaged teeth, shattering his looks.

  CHAPTER SIX

  To prepare for what comes next, for where all this is headed, we need to review some not-so-distant history, so bear with me, dear reader. If you recall, in April 1948, Truman signs the Marshall Plan providing economic assistance to Western Europe to slow the spread of Communism. We extend a hand to the Soviet Union, but they slap it away, fearing our meddling could cost them the Eastern Bloc. In June, the Soviet Union obstructs access to sections of Western-occupied Berlin. The Berlin Blockade is one of the first major events of the Cold War.

  Well before Berlin, the FBI had been boosting its counterintelligence, anticipating Soviet probes into government agencies and, in particular, the Manhattan Project. In August, Whittaker Chambers, an editor at Time magazine and ex-Communist, points his big Red finger at Alger Hiss, a former State Department administrator, during testimony before the House Committee on Un-American Activities, or HUAC. J. Edgar Hoover, director of the FBI and an anti-Communist zealot, plays puppeteer from backstage. Hiss refutes Whittaker’s allegations, but he’s labeled a Commie traitor all the same. The Red Scare of the 1950s has begun. Fun times.

  What the hell does this have to do with two high school girls?

  Fear was in the air. Truman’s desegregation of the armed forces had churned up reactionary sentiments. Black men were being beaten with greater frequency. Black women were being belittled, threatened. Paul Robeson created the American Crusade Against Lynching and was investigated by the FBI for ties to Communism. J. Edgar was more interested in using counterintelligence to expose Communists, some dangerous, most benign, than neutralizing very real homegrown violent racists. Iris told us stories of sit-ins turning violent, about heightened intolerance, a palpable hostility present in daily exchanges. It was necessary for progress, she said, but the anxiety was there, on both sides. Likewise, Communism had been branded a creeping evil, a phantom infestation, or so some politicians wanted the public to believe. Unfortunately, there was just enough truth to it to fuel the fear—and several political careers.

  It swirled around us, this fear, and whether you knew it or not, it seeped into your pores. Of course, it wasn’t just the z
eitgeist. It was closer to us than we could’ve known.

  * * *

  PHILIPPA, NOVEMBER 6, 1948

  I wanted to scream. My blue wool dress was itching me, my stockings were slouching, and my size-too-small pumps on loan from Judy were crushing my feet. I clenched my teeth, doing my best to hide my agony. As a distraction, I studied the small group gathering around the excavated plot. Many of the mourners who had attended the funeral service, including a cluster of police, Principal Green, and other teachers from Eastern High, weren’t there. Bundled in coats and hats against the nippy weather, it was just the essential players, except Miss Martins, who hadn’t appeared yet. Judy was sure she would. Her sense of decorum was too strong.

  Led by Mr. Closs, the pallbearers transported the polished cherry coffin from the hearse up the slope of Prospect Hill Cemetery. Cleve’s father remained stone-faced, staring at nothing, his lips clamped shut. Elaine and the older Mrs. Closs looked on, gripping each other’s hands but standing at a distance from one another, forming a V with their arms. Elaine sniffled and swayed, seeming on the verge of collapse, but never quite caving in. Moira, in contrast, held herself still and erect, resplendent in her shimmering mink and sculpted felt hat swathed with black lace. She knew how to dress for a funeral.

  Once the graveside service had commenced, my shoes shrank a size—or at least that’s how it felt—and my heels began sinking in the damp sod. The pain in my calves crept into my thighs. As we droned through another hymn, I prayed to God for it to be over.

  Judy elbowed me, but I didn’t look at her. She hadn’t mentioned our kiss. It was like it had never happened. I wasn’t sure what to think. Perhaps she didn’t know what to say, or maybe she didn’t want to say anything, or perhaps she thought nothing needed to be said. I wanted to talk about it, place it in some context, assign it meaning. Was it a brief diversion or a major turning point? I wanted it either packed away or thoroughly analyzed. Judy wasn’t having either. She nudged me again, and I glanced at her. She gestured with her chin toward a figure lurking behind a tree down the hill from us. I squinted. It was Miss Martins.

  “Come on, it’s our chance,” she whispered to me and began backing away. Only a few feet from us, Edith glared, her upper lip flat against her teeth, resisting her urge to snap. Aware of Judy’s movement, Bart shifted toward us but stopped. Like Edith, he seemed wary of causing a scene. I froze. If I went with Judy, Edith would tell Dad and get me in serious trouble, but I desperately wanted to talk to Miss Martins. I glanced at the Peabodys again, giving them my best “I’m sorry” eyes and a bit of a shrug, then I stepped back. As Judy would say, “Damn the consequences.”

  We hurried, dodging the tombstones and grave markers, squishing on the damp grass and stirring up little clods of dark soil with our heels. Once we reached the gravel road, we followed it down the hill. A long scraggly boxwood hedge concealed us, allowing us to sneak up on her. We were twenty feet from her when she spotted us. She jumped with surprise and began vigorously waving us away. Even in her exasperation, she was still beautiful; wisps of blond hair had escaped her hat and were shimmering in the light. As we closed in, her slim pink lips narrowed, and in a shrill whisper, she said, “Leave me alone!” but we ignored her. I didn’t understand her intense reaction; we weren’t contagious. We needed to speak to her, so we weren’t going to be put off. She was the only person who could answer our questions. She shook her head and started to flee down the hill. Judy kicked off her shoes, so I did too, relieved to be free from those miserable husks.

  We followed her down the narrow lane, out of the stone-pillared cemetery gate, and to her silver Plymouth, sparkling in the bright sun on North Capitol Street. Traffic whooshed by, a contrast to the muffled peace of Prospect Hill. She snatched her keys out of her purse and fumbled them. They fell under the Plymouth’s bumper. She cursed. I’d never heard her do that. She had to talk to us now. She lowered her shoulders and said, “Why are you doing this?”

  “We know what happened,” Judy said, her chest heaving, “to you.”

  “I saw what he did to you,” I said, not thinking it through. “And, and…”

  Miss Martins was trembling out of exasperation or fear. I wasn’t sure which. “You don’t know what you saw, Philippa,” she said, the sides of her mouth creasing with worry and the muscles in her jaw twitching subtly. “Leave the Closses alone—and me, too.”

  Finding her breath, Judy asked, “What were you and Cleve arguing about the other night in your classroom? Why was he so angry?”

  Miss Martins regarded her for a moment, her irritation mellowing, becoming something else. Resolve? Clarity? Despite the dash down the hill, she still looked smart in her tight black suit. The golden silk scarf that bubbled up like honey from her neckline cast a faint glow across her cheeks and into her eyes. “None of it matters,” she said, looking at Judy, then me, and then again at Judy, her eyes softening. “What’s important is that you, both of you, promise me you’ll stay away from the Closses.”

  “No,” Judy said, crossing her arms, refusing to be swayed by Miss Martins’s charm. “Not unless you tell us about Cleve and his father—and what they have to do with you.”

  An enigmatic smile crept into Miss Martins’s lips: At first, it was guarded, even sad, but it melted into something like amusement or even appreciation. “You are excellent students,” she said, her tone buttery and light, her poetry recitation voice. “Both of you. I hope you continue to read and write with gusto.”

  “Tell us what happened!” Judy said, prickling with desperation.

  She tenderly placed her hands on the sides of Judy’s arms and leaned toward her, the wind toying with a strand of her hair. “You, my dear, are brilliant, but you mustn’t be ruled by your anger. The most horrific stories in Greek mythology end with the transformation of a character into a tree or bird or even a constellation. Whatever makes you miserable, transform it, and let it go.”

  “What does that mean?” Judy said, pulling away. “That’s not advice.”

  “The wisest advice often feels like it’s spoken in code. Don’t be impatient. Sit with it. Life, like great art, is always asking a question: ‘Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: Do I wake or sleep?’ ”

  The Keats line was like a feather being drawn across the back of my neck. She often conjured a similar magic in English class, but this time chills ran through me. Maybe my kiss with Judy or even my memories of Thea made me more susceptible, but I was absolutely mesmerized by her beauty, her manner. It was an elusive attraction, not physical—ethereal, like staring at a gorgeous sunset or a work of art and wondering, “How could this be? How was this made?” I wanted to penetrate the mystery. I wanted to understand how she worked, so I could be her. As I write this, I still do.

  Unfazed, Judy remained motionless.

  Miss Martins noticed me shiver. Did she know I was smitten? “I’m going to be like the nightingale,” she said, winking at me, “and say ‘Adieu! adieu!’ to you. You must do the same to me. Okay?”

  Judy scowled, still unmoved by her aura.

  “Philippa,” Miss Martins said, her eyes on me, “watch out for Judy. Treat her like a good sister would. Be there for her, protect her.”

  I nodded.

  Judy came to life and snarled, “You haven’t answered our questions.”

  “You don’t need answers. You need each other,” she said, unwavering. They regarded each other for a tense moment. “Enough!” she said, throwing her hand up. “I need to go before the service ends.” She reached down beside the car’s front tire and plucked the keys off of the pavement. As if waiting for this opportunity, Judy grabbed the damaged moon pin from her pocket and, as Miss Martins rose, dangled it in front of her.

  She blanched. “That’s not… Where did you get it?”

  “Your apartment,” Judy said.

  Her mouth fell open. “How did you—?”

  “We broke in, looking for you. We wanted to know what happened to you.
”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” She took the pin and examined it as if it were a delicate pressed flower and said, “This meant something once.” She turned it over, the damaged waning moon flashing. Somehow it shaded her entire mood. A deep sadness seemed to well up in her, a muted echo of the fear and confusion Cleve’s threats had caused. “Throw it away,” she said, foisting it back into Judy’s hand as if she feared its lethal spell. “Destroy it.” She unlocked the car and swung the heavy door wide. “Judy,” she said, her silken timbre stripped away, “The Closses, me—none of us will do you any good. Believe me.” She sighed. “It’s dangerous for you.” She studied each of us. “For both of you.” She slid in and closed the door.

  JUDY, NOVEMBER 6, 1948

  We drove up a steep drive through a screen of turning leaves. At the top, Moira Closs’s triple-gabled manor house monstrosity, a spoil of the Capitol City Hardware franchise, revealed itself. It reminded me why I hate Chevy Chase. The neighborhood’s display of wealth isn’t even glitzy or glamorous; it’s tailored, zipped up, and hedged in—the old-line veneer of power, or at least, of those who seek it.

  We parked and followed clusters of mourners into the house through a large wooden door stamped with an oversized iron knocker. We funneled into an Elizabethan-themed main hall lined with dark mahogany paneling, a coffered ceiling, a massive brass chandelier, and a reproduction of an oil painting of Queen Elizabeth I set catty-corner from a gilded portrait of Andrew Jackson and various American Indian artifacts in shadow boxes. All of it was designed to send a message: The Closses are patrons of art, preservers of history, and proprietors of status. American nobility. Whatever.