The Savage Kind

by John Copenhaver

  The taxi lurched to a stop behind a black Cadillac, jerking me out of my thoughts. We were home, and a man in a bulky coat and wide-brimmed hat was leaning against it, head bent forward. I stepped out of the cab and cold air bit into my lungs. My feet slipped slightly on the damp bricks. As I approached the man, he looked up. It was Agent Scarecrow. What was he doing here? He squinted at us but said nothing. Edith and I turned onto the path to the front door. On the stoop, Moira Closs was chatting with Bart, her long mink coat shimmering in the mellow snow-filtered light. He saw us and nodded grimly. Moira spun and beamed—her smile a gash and her eyes malevolent. “Judy,” she trilled. “I’ve been looking for you. I promised your father that, before you departed for the sunny shores of St. Vincent, we’d have a little chat.” Bart looked drained, helpless. I glanced back at Edith, who, to my surprise, seemed alarmed.

  “We have so much to do, Moira,” Edith said with false levity. “I don’t think we can spare the time.” She slipped her hand in mine, which startled me. I almost recoiled, but somehow (maybe it was the tenderness of her grip), I understood that she was trying to reassure me or lay some sort of claim to me. She didn’t want me having this “little chat.” That was clear. But I wanted to. What did the Evil Queen have to say to me? My curiosity was piqued. I still didn’t know the origin or meaning of AHKA or who was responsible for Jackie’s murder. Or, for that matter, my father’s name.

  “I need her for just an hour or so,” Moira said. “You don’t mind, do you? I’ll bring her right back. I promise.” She gave me an appraising look, like I was a ham she was estimating how long to boil.

  Edith released my hand reluctantly, and the next thing I knew, I was in the Closs-mobile with Agent Scarecrow flashing his gun at me, a reminder to behave or I’d… what? Get a bullet? The FBI’s no-frills parenting style. “We have a stop before we get to our destination,” Moira said, no longer aggressively pleasant. “I want to know what Miss Watson knows. She may need an invitation to our little heart-to-heart.”

  * * *

  In front of me, spread out on Moira’s coffee table, were photos of Iris and me, the night I walked her to the bus and showed her my scars—a “family album” according to this FBI goon in a three-piece suit who called himself John and only John. He sat in his chair across from us, satisfied at his theatrical means of imparting this news. I could tell he enjoyed watching me trying to parse the truth. Moira was babbling on—unaware, I think—that I already knew much of what she was telling us. This was the “little chat” she told Edith she needed to have with me. “If you don’t leave me alone,” she seemed to be saying, “I’ll tell the world what you really are.” When she called me a half-breed, I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but instead, I just stood and said nothing, thoughts swirling.

  All this time, my half sister had been in front of me, right across the counter at Horsfield’s. The line between us, which ran hidden under the chrome counter, under all the malts and hamburgers, under the cigarette breaks, hummed inside me as if it had been violently plucked. Clotho’s thread. I could feel, in a very physical way, the reality of what I’d learned about myself. It wasn’t any clearer or any less confusing, but it was gaining density in my heart.

  When Moira said, “That’s why we’re all here—to make sure we’re crystal clear with each other,” I understood why she was here and why I was here—she wanted Charlene’s journal, which she’ll never have. But what I didn’t understand was why Adrian Bogdan and the FBI were here, or for that matter, Philippa. Moira could’ve threatened me one-on-one. Maybe she was worried that it wouldn’t be enough. Of course, nothing would be enough. As we talked, Bogdan’s silent presence seemed to radiate from his dark corner. No, there’s more to this. I glared at Only-John’s slash of a mouth and quick eyes and said, “Why are you here?” He fidgeted, and I added, “Because of him?” nodding to the creep breathing heavily in the shadows. Bogdan stood, revealing himself, and sauntered over to us, flashing his stalactite teeth. Only Philippa seemed surprised. “Da,” he said, “because of me.” I could hear the gears spinning in Philippa’s brain. Mine were whirring fast, too.

  Moira introduced us to Bogdan, unease with him rippling across her finely powdered face. After all, she and her son had framed him. That’s when an idea slid into my mind: Moira wasn’t friends with Only-John; she was working with him. Such things happened in the DC social scene. According to B and E, no one went to a cocktail party just for the cocktails. What if, somehow, they were all working together? It would explain why, in a moment of panic, she thought of Bogdan as a ready scapegoat, and how she had easy access to the information written on Jackie. But what were they working together on? Who were they to each other?

  Bogdan leered at me, stepped forward, and grabbed my chin. He said, “You don’t look much like a nigger.” That word rocketed through me, stirring up shame I didn’t know I had and pushing me out of myself. I felt its heat; its radiation; its ability to annihilate, but somehow—perhaps it’s the way it flung me away from myself—it didn’t have its intended effect. It gave me perspective, even clarity, which made me feel powerful. He wanted to belittle and demean me, to squash me, but it exposed him. Now, his guts were inside out. “The joke is on the Peabodys,” he added with a chuckle. I gritted my teeth and tried to pull away, but his hand clamped tighter—I could feel the rough sandpaper-like surface of his fingers—and he hissed, “Jackie was such a sweet little thing. White as snow.”

  Only-John and Moira said something that I didn’t catch. I glared back at Bogdan, trying to melt him with my gaze. His muscular face flexed and throbbed; his veins pulsed at his temples. His eyes pierced me with their aquamarine irises, and along the ridge of his nose bubbled oily blackheads. Without a doubt, I was staring at Jackie’s murderer. His sinister aura wrapped around me as it had Jackie. Empathy for her—more than I’ve ever felt before or since—swelled up in me. It was unbearable to know that his face was the last thing she saw. I sensed her suffering, her terror. He clenched his tartar-caked teeth. He wanted to kill me, and despite my energetic bitterness, my resolve, fear crept in.

  Behind me, the scarecrow cocked his pistol.

  Moira yelled, “Don’t!” and flew to her feet.

  The room froze in a bizarre tableau.

  Bogdan released me and held up his hands, as if it was all no big deal, he was just playing around, the kidder.

  Although I didn’t see it, I sensed that the scarecrow had lowered his weapon. Bogdan’s shoulders relaxed, and he dropped his hands.

  Philippa tilted her chin, her blue-gray eyes catching mine—and a spark flew between us. Perhaps it was concern or righteous anger or even love. It was too quick, too subtle, to be sure, but it wasn’t a rejection, it wasn’t shame. I didn’t know how she’d feel about my background, about who I was. Sure, she liked Iris, but Iris was the first Negro she’d ever befriended. What mattered at that moment, however, was that she was with me, not against me. I wasn’t alone. She pivoted toward Bogdan and, in a classic Philippa move, blurted out rapid-fire questions: “What does AHKA mean? Why did you write it on Jackie?”

  Always after the truth!

  “It’s not AHKA,” he growled, and shifting into a Slavic accent, his Ukrainian origins showing, he said, “It’s Эвридика. They mistook the и for an English H, and the first four letters of the Cyrillic washed off in the river. The joke’s on Moira.”

  Moira was now behind her chair, clutching its back edge. Her eyes were darting nervously. Bogdan’s behavior didn’t seem to be part of the plan.

  “Why did you write it on her?” Philippa said, undaunted.

  “Her story isn’t over.” He seemed pleased by her question, as if, finally, someone had actually seen him. I didn’t like it. At all. “I sent her to the underworld. Don’t worry, I’ll return to get her, like Orpheus did Eurydice, to save her from death, like the rest of them, the rest of Anna’s friends.” His voice was mild, even serene, the Slavic accent enriching its timbre. “It’s ho
w I mark them, with the name of the original victim, Эвридика, beautiful Eurydice, bitten by the viper.” The Shirley Temple memorial to his sister made sense now. Perhaps she was the original victim, his Eurydice, struck dead by his father—the original snake in the grass, so to speak.

  “What do you mean, the rest of them?” Philippa said softly, not wanting to spook the beast. “How many?”

  “As many who wanted to go,” he said wistfully and turned to me and, as if it was my lucky day, said, “I’ll send you there, too.” His face lit up from inside, as if this thing he did—killing girls, his little Eurydices—brought meaning to his life. Although I’m sure my racial background sullied the purity of his precious ritual, he needed me—my banishment to the underworld—to fulfill him. Fear uncoiled inside me. It wasn’t panic or adrenaline-ignited fight or flight. No, it was something else—perhaps it was being in awe of the enormity of the evil only feet from me.

  Almost to herself, Philippa said, “The FBI, the Russian accent… I think I understand this.” She seemed delighted by her discovery. We looked at each other. Her eyes flashed at me in an attempt to beam her epiphany into me like comic book telepathy, but I had no idea what she’d put together. I didn’t see the connections between all of the people in that room, especially Bogdan and the FBI. What was I missing? Her expression dissolved into impatience, and begrudgingly, she said, “He’s a spy.”

  I expected Only-John and the rest to laugh: “Oh, Philippa, you’re such a silly little girl!” Instead, he sat up and placed his hands on his knees, worrying his kneecaps. His face was rigid and affectless. No one was denying it. Was it true? Were we in the midst of a spook party? Shit. So that’s his stake in all of this. A cog in my mind ticked forward: “But Moira—she derailed everything by framing Bogdan.”

  “Her crime of convenience was a blunder,” Philippa said, still focused on Only-John. “That’s why, after interviewing Elaine Closs, your agents tricked Halo into going to the Daphne to incriminate himself?” She craned her neck back to address the scarecrow: “What did you say to him?”

  He didn’t respond; he just stared at her.

  Moira’s chin was cocked defiantly, but Only-John’s eyes fluttered. He was annoyed. I’d hoped he’d explain himself or confirm our theory—or at least offer a glint of admiration. Fat chance. It didn’t matter. The momentum of our deduction spurred me on: “Did your spooks tell Halo that Charlene was in danger? Is that why he moved so quickly?”

  Still, nothing.

  “But you knew she was already dead.”

  “Enough!” he snapped and stood from his seat. Despite his paunch and three-piece suit and tight little smile, he had a powerful presence. I’d struck a nerve. The scarecrow and the penguin must’ve seen through Elaine’s act. Maybe she let them see through it. Moira must’ve been in serious trouble with the FBI’s senior spooks for using Bogdan to cover up murder. Perhaps she caved under pressure and spilled her guts. Maybe they even told her that they were framing her son, that he was a necessary sacrifice. I wonder how she felt about that: her baby boy, the patsy for a crime his wife committed, a crime born out of bigotry.

  Stepping out from behind the chair, she spoke: “I’ve done my part to make it right. My son is dead. Elaine is locked up.” Then, to Only-John, her features narrowing as if taking aim: “Your precious resource, your child-murdering monster is out of control and has been for years.” She pointed at Bogdan, jabbing the air between them. “If he hadn’t murdered Jackie Peabody, none of us would be here, would we?”

  “This isn’t about you and your fucking cocktail parties and private parlor chats,” Bogdan snarled, spittle flying. “This is about me.”

  “What is he…?” Philippa said, then with more force, “…a resource for?”

  “Information,” Moira said with distaste.

  “Information?” Philippa echoed.

  I recalled a movie I’d seen several years ago at the Uptown. The House on 92nd Street. It’s about a man who, because of his German heritage, is approached by the Nazis to spy on Americans. He goes to the FBI, and they enlist him as a double agent. Of course, Bogdan isn’t a Nazi. He’s Ukrainian. Maybe he’s… What? A Communist? Or was a Commie?

  Bogdan leered at us. His gemlike eyes danced in front of his oily skin. Chills ran through me—and I could feel Philippa shrink beside me. Then he smiled, and his ruined teeth, more than anything he could say, revealed the truth. “I’m the mythical boatman Charon transporting secret messages over the River Styx from the underworld to the land of the living, from my homeland to my new home. After all, the Soviet Union and this country pray to the same gods—Almighty Uranium and Supreme Plutonium. It’s best to curry favor with these gods. They are tyrannical and absolute, just ask the Japanese.”

  He knew how to extend a metaphor.

  “It’s not worth the cost,” Moira snapped, her shoulders sinking. “All those girls. Here, and in your country. Butchered.”

  “A moral conundrum, isn’t it?” he said, encroaching on her, taunting her. “A few sweet girls or the lives of millions. It’s not too much to ask, not really.” He smiled again, flashing rot. “Besides, I’ll bring all of them home one day, back from the dead, mothers and daughters reunited, brothers and sisters again arm in arm.”

  As I thought it, Philippa said it: “You’re insane.” She said it plainly, as if it was a statement the entire group could agree on, as if it was a fact—the sky is blue, the grass is green, Bogdan is fucking crazy. But we weren’t in the realm of sanity. Moira’s study was the anteroom to Bogdan’s underworld, a space where government agencies protected child murderers in the name of national security. It was a shadowy place where moral logic didn’t apply, nor did simple facts. That was Philippa’s miscalculation, which is why, in a spasm of rage, Bogdan lurched forward and backhanded her. She cried out and toppled into me, her strawberry curls springing out of their shape and landing in my face, in my mouth. We crashed to the floor, knocking the coffee table over. The photos of Iris and me fanned out across the rug.

  When someone strikes you, you don’t know how you’re going to react. I was startled, but my anger—all the frustration that I’ve carried over the years, the same fury I felt toward Elaine—seized me. Hitting Philippa was hitting me. As I write this, I can still taste the hair tonic from her curls—and I swear there’s a mark on my cheek, as if he’d hit me. We aren’t just friends or lovers; we’re the same person, two sides of the same coin, folie a deux. But it wasn’t madness; it was love. I felt it in my body—which is why, without thinking about it, I lunged at him, arms swinging wildly, only to be cut short, my forward momentum suspended. The scarecrow had gripped me by my waist, his fingers digging into my midriff. His long arms slid around me, pressing in on my stomach. My heart was slamming against my ribs. I wanted to beat and claw and smash Bogdan into nothing. I wanted to see him grow small. His handsome face, that savage symmetry, collapsed. His dazzling eyes retreated in their sockets, and his bottom lip drooped. He was frightened of me.

  Still discombobulated, Philippa found her feet. She reached for me, tottering. Moira swept down on her, folding her winglike arms around her and holding her in place. Her gesture was sheltering, forming a protective cocoon. All the same, Philippa struggled, her face furrowed, her eyes bulging, glassy.

  I continued to buck the scarecrow’s grip, kicking at his shins and trying to twist away from him. In my periphery, I saw Only-John draw his pistol from his shoulder holster. “Jesus Christ,” he spat, waving the barrel, “Stop it!” And with that, Bogdan backed away, and I ceased thrashing. The scarecrow released me, and I landed on my heels. Philippa slipped from Moira’s embrace, and we took each other’s hands, crushing close to one another. Her touch soothed me and quieted my mind. John looked at us, his intense eyes level, in control. “Girls,” he said firmly, “so now you have an idea of the complexity of our situation—well, more than an idea. I don’t want this to be a bigger fucking mess than it already is. You’re going to leave an
d never speak about this again. Even to each other. If you do, I’ll make it my pet project to destroy you and your families.” He looked at the scarecrow and, shaking his shoulders to cast off the tension, said, “Agent Lott will drive you home.”

  PHILIPPA, DECEMBER 6, 1948

  Other than throwing on our coats, we didn’t let go of each other until we stepped out of Moira’s door. Agent Lott was a few steps in front of us, and we knew (call it telepathy) what we were going to do the second our shoes crunched on the snow. We glared at each other, our hands broke apart, and we ran, plunging down the hillside. We weren’t getting in the car with Lott. Neither of us believed he was going to drive us home. When we made our move, he spun around, but I didn’t look back to see if he was pursuing us. We didn’t have on the appropriate footwear for a dash through the snow—even in an inch of accumulation. The smooth soles of our flats offered no control, and the steep incline became perilous. Just beyond a line of pine trees, we landed on our rear ends and slid down the bank. The snowflakes stung our cheeks, and the icy slope burned the backs of our thighs. Somehow fate intervened, and we didn’t collide with any tree trunks or rocky ledges. Like a carnival chute, we popped out on the curb. Judy stood quickly, offered me a hand, and we continued to run, our anxiety seeping out as we wove our way through the residential streets of Chevy Chase.