The Savage Kind

by John Copenhaver

  When I told her everything I knew, she stared across the empty diner and said, “Well, damn,” and shook her head. “I’m sorry you found out that way. That wasn’t my intention.” She gave me a hug, murmured another apology, and when we’d settled in our seats again, she said, “Your Miss M knew our father’s name and put together that I was his first child. Since I was little, I knew I had a half-sibling, the fruit of a dark spell in Mama and Papa’s marriage, but they didn’t talk about it. It was forbidden.” She swirled her malt with a long-handled spoon. “Then, one day, your fancy Miss M shows up at my place of employment—I was working the breakfast shift at this crummy diner on First Street—and told me your name and that you were, for all intents and purposes, a white girl.” She took measure of me, perhaps gaging my reaction. My face muscles tightened. “Let’s just say, I didn’t handle it well. I let my folks have it.” It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d be upset by my skin color, and it unsettled me. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one going through a paradigm shift. “They apologized and explained, and eventually, I simmered down. Curiosity got the better of me, and I followed you one day after school. You went to Horsfield’s and plopped down at the bar by yourself. The other Eastern High kids steered clear of you. You seemed lonely, but somehow, a little, I don’t know… lofty.” She smiled, her eyes lighting up, growing tender. “Call it sisterly instinct, but I knew I’d like you. I wasn’t ready to walk up and introduce myself, though. Your Miss M warned me that it could be dangerous for me to reveal myself to you. She hadn’t even done it herself, something about how carrying on with that Closs man complicated things.” She looked me in the eye. “Forgive me for saying this, but she struck me as selfish—or maybe just careless.” I bit my lip, not knowing what to say. “Anyway, when I saw a Help Wanted sign on Horsfield’s door that day, I jumped at the chance.”

  I appreciated her candor, even if it was hard to hear. I felt like I’d found a solid piece of myself, something real. Without thinking it through, I asked her if I could meet my father and remeet Alice. I was hungry for more pieces of the puzzle. She leaned back against the counter and pursed her lips. Doubt crinkled the edges of her eyes. Then, reaching a decision of some sort, she asked, “Are you ready?” I nodded. She asked again, “Are you sure?” I said I was.

  She told me to catch her after her morning shift, and she’d take me to her parents. The sun was out, and the air was crisp, almost electric. Horsfield’s was still decorated for the holiday. Limp swags of tinsel hung along the inside frame of the window, and a plastic Santa waved from behind the plate glass. Emerging from the alley, Iris spotted me, gave a quick salute, dropped her butt and stamped it out.

  “Hey there,” she said, as she unhurriedly approached me. “Here we go,” she added, winking at me.

  “Here we go,” I echoed, trying to conceal my trepidation.

  As we walked to the streetcar, I watched her purposeful stride. She cut the air with her long body, demanding that the other pedestrians, many of whom were white, part the way for us. It was thrilling. As we crossed the street, she leaned in and asked again about my scars. I thought about those awful photos the FBI goons took and felt a surge of anger. Then, feeling freer, even bold, I told Iris about the cats and the cellar and that it had seemed more like a memory than a dream. She thought it over, giving it due consideration, and said that, with time, I’d remember more of it. She even offered to help me dig into it when I was ready. After all, her mother had worked at Crestwood for many years. I recalled Alice’s sweet gifts: cookies, peanut brittle, and brown-sugary pound cake. I also remembered our chats, and how for a few minutes, here and there, I’d felt like I existed. It occurred to me: all that time, she’d never mentioned her last name.

  At the stop, we hopped on 92 Northbound and changed cars at H Street. As we headed up Kenilworth Avenue, Iris asked again, “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” The truth is: I had no idea. How do you know? Are you ever ready?

  I shrugged and said nothing.

  “Have you been struck mute?” she said, shaking her head.

  Still, I didn’t respond. How could I? I wasn’t ready. There was no way to be ready. She gazed out the window at the passing row houses. As she had during our stroll down the sidewalk, she held her back straight and her chin up. Her thin wool coat was neat and clean, and her cotton gloves, still bluing white. She always maintains her bearing, her confidence, even while wearing street clothes or her ridiculous Horsfield’s uniform. Usually, she made it look effortless, a seasoned ballerina executing a pirouette. But as I studied her, I detected weariness. Nothing anyone else would notice: a flex in her temple and a crinkle across her nose. Had I done something? Was I annoying her?

  “This is all insane,” I said. “But maybe it’s the beginning of better times.” I was shooting for cheerfulness, which isn’t something that comes naturally.

  She turned to me, her eyes frank, kind, and shining with intelligence. She wasn’t irritated. It was something else. Sisterly concern? Love? She was really something. She was exceptional—a Negro woman with integrity, intelligence, and determination. That’s what I could be, too.

  “You and I,” I said. “We’re exceptions to the rule. We’re different. Philippa, too.” I couldn’t forget her. “We could be anything.”

  A pall of seriousness fell over her. “I’m not an exception to anyone’s rule.” She added sharply, “Neither are you. Don’t forget it.”

  I was confused, and she sensed it. “White folks always like to think of a successful Negro as an exception,” she said. “Don’t you see?” I didn’t see. I couldn’t see, which was scrawled across my forehead, I’m sure. “It’s comfortable for them.” Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe it’s comfortable for you.”

  Shame rippled through me. She was right. I’d seen her that way, but not because I found it comfortable, but because I found it comforting. I was self-involved; I wanted to think of myself as an exception—as exceptional. That’s what I looked for in Charlene, too. But clearly, Iris isn’t an exception. She’s self-made, not something molded by the gods or someone else’s idea of her. She was always fighting for it—the respect she demanded at Horsfield’s, at school, even walking down the street or sitting on the streetcar. All of it cost her; it drained her. That was the source of her weariness. She’s not an exception. She’s a possibility. If I’m not an exception, if I’m not Jackie’s angel-shaped shadow, if I’m not Bart and Edith’s sweet lily-white fantasy, then what am I? The result of a random collision, a bit of boozy sex between Elaine and Ellis, catalyzed by a mutual love of jazz. Was there possibility in that?

  “I’ll ask you one last time,” Iris said, her chin lifting. “Are you ready for this?”

  Her solemn face demanded my honesty, and it was the least I could give her. So, I said, “No, I’m not. Not at all.”

  She smiled, bumped my shoulder with hers, and said, “Well, too late. We’re doing it anyway.”

  Once we arrived, we strolled down an oak-lined street with standalone homes. Purplish sky floated above the leafless canopy. We stopped at the second to last house on the left, a modest bungalow with a large well-appointed front porch, draped with still-lit Christmas lights.

  We lingered on the sidewalk. Up a flight of concrete stairs and through the front door, I’d see Alice again, and for the first time, I’d meet my father, my actual father. Would the Alice of today match my memories of her? Would I see myself in Ellis? And afterward, standing before a mirror, would I see him in me? Would I conjure up bad memories for them? Or would I bring relief? Where was this getting us all? No telling. But what I did know was that, if I went inside, I’d be shedding the old idea of myself like an exoskeleton. I’d yearn for who I’d been, for what I’d made of myself, for what I’d shaped out of a few fractured memories and a reserve of imagination. The hardest part, of course, would be figuring out who I was going to be, not just to myself, but to the world.

  As I teetered on my heels, the muffled swoon of jazz floated out of
the house, loose and moody. It sounded like something that Charlene might have recommended, or Elaine would have swayed to in her gloomy living room. It was at once familiar and absolutely foreign. Was it a sign? And if so, was it a good omen or bad?

  “Let’s go in,” Iris said, and I took my first step.

  EPILOGUE

  So, we return to the question: Whose story is this? Who am I? Do you have an answer yet? Have you guessed? I promised to tell you, I know.

  But what if your question is the answer to a riddle, what if it goes like this:

  If I told you that I was neither girl, that might be true. We’re no longer the girls you’ve just read about. We’ve changed over the years. There are more stories to tell, some of them beautiful, some of them ugly. Neither of us is a femme fatale or an ingénue. Perhaps we’re a bit of both, as many women of our generation are, or maybe all women are. That’s just prevarication, I know. We all change—all of us—but that doesn’t mean we stop being ourselves, right?

  If I told you that I was both girls, that also might be true. Unless you know one of us, your experience is limited to these pages, in which Philippa and Judy are, in essence, creations of one mind, my mind. I pieced together meticulously kept journal entries, smoothing out and reconfiguring passages so the collage’s seams aren’t too visible, too frayed. I’ve appropriated artifacts from our lives, glued them together, and shaped the past. There’s no built-in appraisal of my objectivity, no test for my rendering of the truth, unless my dear friend reaches out and supplies her opinion, her corrections, her account. I hope she does.

  But I know that answer isn’t going to satisfy you. It’s the epistemological approach and much too slippery. Besides, damn it, you want a name, not some silly riddle!

  Before I tell you, I want to suggest this: That withholding my identity as your kindly narrator freed you from making assumptions about me. You weren’t judging me by my looks, whether it was the strawberry curls and saddle oxfords or the black bob and bulky sweaters. Or my tastes, whether it was for Wuthering Heights or for Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Or the varying shades of my sexuality (although neither of us is a straight shooter, strictly speaking). Or finally, my race, whether I’m white or mixed or whatever. Remember, I told you that it was never that simple, never just black or white. My point is: Maybe, just maybe, for a few pages, you stopped thinking about me and just believed it.

  Now, it’s only fair that you have a name. I promised it, and I will deliver. I ask you, though, why is it important to you? Will it change everything or nothing? Do names have that power?

  I’ve already given you a clue: My pen name, Abigail Knightley.

  Look closely. Got it? I know you’re no dummy.

  ADDENDUM 1984 EDITION

  Dearest Judy,

  When I dropped by Brentano’s and saw that another Abigail Knightley book had been released, I snatched it up, as I always do. Of course, I had no idea you’d be telling our story, which is why, after all these years, I’m writing to you. I know it’s what you want me to do.

  At first, I was furious with you for harvesting my diary entries without my permission. I’d assumed they were lost, destroyed, or, at least, buried in a deep hole. I can’t believe you kept them all these years, which I suppose I should be flattered by. Your “journal entries” were a lark. You never kept a diary, at least I don’t remember it.

  To be honest, I resisted the story at first. I’d toss it across my study and curse you. It seemed like you’d thrown together a perverse Man Ray collage of our lives. Gradually, I began to get it. I remembered how you would poke and prod me, even rebuff me, to get my attention. It was at once irritating and exciting—but clearly a sign of affection. Warmed by that thought, I’d rise from my chair, walk across the room, and pick up the book again.

  In your final chapter, you invited me to offer my account—or offer corrections. Your book isn’t accurate in every detail—well, many details. I’m not interested in nitpicking. It’s beside the point. However, I want to comment on several significant changes you made and posit a theory:

  First, Bogdan never saw himself as Orpheus. He wrote Анка or Anka, a diminutive form of Anna, not Эвридика, on the bodies of all those girls. The police didn’t make a mistake. It was his sister’s name. You added a flair to his killings that wasn’t there. While I appreciate the literary flourish, it comes close to romanticizing him. He was cruel and thoroughly despicable, but I’m telling you what you already know.

  Second, after Halo fell from Hill Estates, you wrote that you went to check on him to make sure he was dead, but you omitted what happened. You see, I followed you, which you didn’t know. I never wrote it down. I understand why you didn’t include it. It would’ve greatly colored the reader’s opinion of you—of the “character” of Judy. They would’ve had the image of you discovering Halo Closs mortally wounded but still alive. Instead of seeking help, you picked up the wooden plank that had served as our bridge—our gangway to safety—and cracked him over the head with it.

  This leads me to my theory, which began to form as I read your book. I hope you’ll indulge me. So, what if you knew that Elaine Closs was your mother much earlier than you let on. What if—and I have no way of proving this—when you rifled through Bart’s desk the day we broke in using a bobby pin and our true crime know-how, you found more than you let on. In addition to an adoption document with Charlene Peters’s name on it, what if you found your birth certificate with Elaine’s and Halo’s names on it? Certainly, Elaine wouldn’t have mentioned Ellis Baker’s name. Whatever it was, something could’ve pointed you to Elaine.

  What if you visited her on your own, and when you did, Elaine, who must’ve had some inkling that Cleve had Charlene’s diary, gave you her journal—which oddly, or perhaps suspiciously, you’ve never let me read in its entirety. After all, once Charlene knew that Cleve had it, wouldn’t she have approached her sister about it?

  And this diary, what did it contain?

  Here’s what I think: Charlene did use you to blackmail Moira, and she came back to DC to sink her claws into Halo and, perhaps, blackmail the family again. That’s what Cleve knew and why he was furious at her and at you. That’s what you found out, which of course, would’ve been devastating.

  Growing up, you were used by other people time and again, especially parental figures: Bart, Edith, Halo, Elaine, Moira, and yes, maybe even our beloved Miss Martins. If she turned out to be a villain—as I think she did—it would’ve pushed you over the edge and changed you. With Elaine whispering to you and offering you the proof of Charlene’s deception, I see why you’d want to punish her and the Closses. I can also understand why it’s a secret you could never tell me.

  It makes sense: If Charlene knew her sister killed Cleve, which surely Halo told her about, I can’t imagine her letting her into her apartment and serving her Ovaltine. But I do see her letting you in for a morning confab. Elaine knew what you were going to do—perhaps it was even her idea, and she gave you his shamrock tie to frame him—but you did the deed. Meanwhile, she directed the FBI toward Halo, who were happy to do whatever it took to shift focus from Bogdan to someone else. They didn’t care who killed Cleve or Charlene.

  You probably learned that trick for moving the body in the same first aid class that I did. You knew how to stage the scene. We’d already verified that AHKA was written on Cleve. It was the perfect double revenge. You framed Halo as revenge for deserting you, and freeing Bogdan was a kind of revenge against the Peabodys for inflicting Jackie on you. Knowing the truth about Bogdan, I’m sure you regret that now. As in life, during that whole episode of the book, you were in real pain. But it wasn’t the grief of losing the person who called herself Miss Martins; it was the grief of losing the idea of Miss M.

  Your revenge against Elaine was more complicated. If what I’m writing is true, you knew she had love for you, as muddled as it was. What did you propose to her? Or she, you? A suicide pact—and I was supposed to be the witness
? The great recorder of the melodramatic gesture? Was that why she was so accommodating when we arrived at her door? Oh, I just thought of it: Did you send Love’s Last Move to me with the Ovid inscription after filching it from Charlene? What a brilliant way of nudging me in the right direction!

  As soon as you produced the moon pin—the one you nabbed from Charlene’s apartment after killing her, not, as you wrote in the book, the one you grabbed from Elaine’s jewelry box—she knew you hadn’t come for a suicide pact, but a confession and an execution. From the beginning, you seemed in control of that confrontation, even manipulating it. Sure, Elaine had a few things to confess, but perhaps she also redeemed herself by confessing to killing her sister, absolving you. Maybe it was an act of true motherly love. It’s unfortunate that she’s been locked up at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital for over a decade, or we could ask her. In your “journal,” she inquires, “Are you going to tell Philippa everything?” What if that everything wasn’t just that you’re mixed race, but that you helped murder your aunt, our esteemed Miss Martins? We’ll never know, will we?

  Finally, about the episode with the plank: Both of our feet were on it when Halo went over! You claimed that it was only my foot on the beam, that I’d acted on impulse, that I’d prized my secret so highly I’d killed a man. But your foot was on that board, too. Our eyes met. To this day, I still see their depth and clarity. I don’t understand why you altered it—after all, it was a defensive gesture. Unless you killed him because he knew about your involvement in Charlene’s death. Come to think of it, if he did know, he might’ve meant to harm us that day.

  I understand why you edited out finishing him off with the board, and any evidence that you were involved in Miss Martins’s death, but why this? Was it so I would feel compelled to write this letter correcting the omission and, in writing it, proclaim that you eliminated the instant that linked us together forever, which of course, has the ironic effect of reaffirming our bond? Or was it because you did it, you jostled the board, not me? Was it that, back then, you were lonely in your guilt and needed me to be a murderer, too?