Scent

by Kelly, Clint L.

  They held each other until one could find the words. “We’ve built an altar, Lord,” Cassie said. “It may not be regulation, but here it is and here we are.”

  Then they were still.

  Chapter 25

  Cassie stroked burnished hair the color of buckskin and marveled at the sheen of it. She laid the brush aside and trailed a fingertip along the bridge of Beth’s nose.

  “I’m alive, Mom, really.”

  They sat together on the lawn opposite Gretchen’s deserted dog run. Beth laid her head in her mother’s lap. Cassie leaned back against a pink flowering dogwood.

  In the weeks since that awful night when, as Nick put it, “God took an ax to all our presuppositions,” Cassie took every opportunity to draw her daughter close.

  “I know, Button, I know. Just let a grateful mother check once in a while, okay?”

  Beth did not protest the endearment. All the Dixons were staying within easy reach — physically and verbally. Nick said it best. “How closely must we skirt disaster before we stop leaving memos and actually see the person standing right in front of us?” He spent a few hours each day overseeing the stepped-up production of Choice Brand beautifiers but always came home early for dinner, a movie, or long walks in the park, just the three of them. Four, if you counted Andre, but Beth was seeing less of him these days, deciding to apply herself more to her studies so she did not end up “with bubblegum for brains.”

  They rejoiced in Maggie’s slow but steady progress. She was now in physical rehab, with a series of plastic surgeries beyond that. Cassie, though, predicted swift improvement now that Brenda was her mother’s personal rehab coach. Mags had moved into Brenda’s penthouse apartment, and it was apparent that rebuilding the long-dormant relationship was as medically beneficial as learning to walk again. “She gives bloodthirsty pirates a good name,” grumbled Mags, but it was apparent from the twinkle in her eye that she thrived on the attention. And she should talk. For her part, Brenda cooked their favorite Thai food and forbade her mother from going anywhere near a microphone or reporter’s notepad. They took up painting shorebirds from memory, their easels once again side by side.

  Gretchen’s skull fracture healed nicely. The family canine seemed normal in all respects, with no lingering memories of that fated night. For now, however, the dog remained in a kennel at Dr. Grayson’s. It would take longer for Beth to regain trust in the Dane, but progress was being made. The nightmares were less frequent. As for Mags, she insisted Gretchen be restored to the family. “You wouldn’t hold it against Cousin Willie if someone slipped him a bad batch of mushrooms and he burned down the barn,” she said.

  In three weeks Joy and Royce would become Mr. and Mrs. Blankenship. Nick agreed to be best man and Cassie maid of honor. Joy was out of the hospital, recuperating nicely, the Nose her constant companion. They would honeymoon in France to tour all the famous perfumeries for him, all the classic cheese makers for her. In the meantime he managed the Choice Brand operation for the Dixons and helped Brenda purge deBrieze stores of all but the best scents. Although Night Tremors was allowed to remain, its advertising budget was slashed in half. Brenda said not a word.

  Joy’s remaining raccoon neighbors were trapped and shipped to a remote forest far from town, where she hoped the kits were able to find other raccoons with which to cleave. Despite the relocation, she put the house and its painful memories on the market and was already rescuing from bachelor neglect the home she would share with Royce.

  After massive media warnings to return all remaining samples of Cassandra, the bizarre attack incidents involving a variety of animals across the Golden State had fallen to zero. The investigation into the true nature of the impounded perfume was ongoing and fed the newsmagazines and talk shows. The tabloids sharpened their knives over what they dubbed “the deposed king and queen of fragrance,” but when the Dixons used the Crystal Decanter prize money to establish a foundation for the attack victims and trust funds for the children of those who had so tragically died, the raking of muck subsided. Fr. Byron, with the blessing of his fellow clergy at St. John’s Cathedral, agreed to administer the fund. Laughton deBrieze contributed one hundred thousand dollars to the cause.

  Mark Butterfield, who likened the case to the Tylenol poisoning of 1982, began adoption proceedings for a brother and sister, five and four years old respectively, who lost their single mother in a dog attack. There was no one else in their extended family who could take them, and he had seen the impoverished circumstances in which the kids lived. Mark brushed off the admiration of others, saying that it was strictly a selfish ploy to get his girlfriend to commit. But Cassie saw the tears of a paternal love whenever he talked about the children who would one day be his.

  Cassie surveyed the dahlia garden, now brown and battle-beaten by her dark night of the soul. The soil where Nick and she had knelt and waited for God bore still the slight depressions of their desperate vigil. It was only then, hours after the battle had been so spectacularly lost, that they had finally surrendered.

  The hacked blooms crunched beneath her feet.

  She thought of Barb Silverman and making good on her promise before a vast television audience swollen by the Cassandra scandal.

  Instead of providing free Cassandra to the studio audience, she gave the host an on-air facial and provided everyone with a double dose of Choice Brand beautifiers. Thanks to a national news feed, that afternoon sales of animal-tested Choice Brand products at all deBrieze stores experienced a sharp rise. There had only been a single call-in threat from a group calling itself FAR — For Animal Rights — but there had been no criminal trespass, and bottling plant security had been stepped up. Understandably, Cassie did not receive the apology owed her by Silverman from the first appearance, but a new respect for Cassie’s resilience was evident from a gentler line of questions.

  How many catechists does it take to change a lightbulb?” Fr. Byron asked when she showed up for the first of the weekly classes in the Christian faith.

  Cassie shook her head. “I don’t know. How many does it take?”

  “Just one. The rest stand around saying, ‘Why? Why? Why did the light go out?’ ”

  He hugged her; she sobbed on his shoulder. “Let it out, Cassie. You’re broken, and that’s when the Lord’s grace runs richest. Where’s Nick?”

  Cassie sniffled into the royal blue brocade vest. “He said to tell you to count him in the next round if you agree to be his permanent running partner. I c – can’t come home without a yes.”

  Fr. B laughed. “You tell that swindler that I agree in principle but will seek medical approval. And if I don’t hear what I want to hear, I reserve the right to a second opinion. If God had meant for priests to run, approved vestments would include a pair of jogging shoes.”

  Cassie asked all of the former employees to stay and gave those who did a loyalty bonus and a five percent raise. The Azure World name had been erased, but the acceptance of Choice Brand products was on the rise.

  The only trusted member of the team they lost was sales manager Forrest Cunningham.

  “I wish you all well, but I don’t have the vinegar necessary to starting over,” Poochie said when he gave his notice. “Early retirement’s the way to go. Let the young Turks in sales take the CB line and run with it.”

  Two weeks later he was charged with using his top-security clearance to set up the botched robbery of corporate secrets and with placing the leech in the bottle of Swirl.

  He actually seemed relieved. At Cassie’s office desk, shoulders slumped, he awaited arrest. “When the tampering incident failed to bring down deBrieze as well, John Lexington went ballistic and threatened to kill me. I’ve been living on the edge of a heart attack. That Lexington was a real artist — nobody could paint pictures of the horrible ways there are to die like he could.”

  All the same, he confessed most regret that his longtime verbal sparring partner, Bridgett Sigafoos in product development, was on antidepressants ove
r the news of his moral collapse. “He’s a regular Eggs Benedict,” she told Cassie as they watched the authorities take him away in cuffs.

  Cassie noted Poochie’s hangdog expression and utter silence.

  For once, he has neither the heart nor the guts to correct her.

  Once Poochie was gone from the building, Mark Butterfield said, “The public is ready to forgive and move on.” He once more invoked the Tylenol poisoning comparison. “There have been a few cries of corporate negligence, but swift action by the Dixons on behalf of the stricken families cooled most of those.”

  “Culpability?” said Nick. Cassie was glad the question had been asked.

  “The courts ruled that due diligence was performed in compliance with the law. A couple of enterprising politicians are introducing legislation that will make animal testing mandatory on products manufactured for cosmetic consumption. The animal rights people promise unspecified reprisals. Listen, you two, I’m sorry for the way things turned out.”

  “No need to be,” said Cassie. “We had our moment in the sun. Now it’s Faye Guterman’s turn.” She picked up the newspaper with a photo of Guterman on the cover and read aloud, “ ‘Hailed for the discerning analysis that brought the bizarre attacks to an end, Guterman has accepted a six-figure advance for her book The Case of the Killer Perfume to be published next fall by Random House.’ ”

  For Cassie, the capper to the day came in a phone call from Perry Montague of the Guild. “Cass, what a miserable turn of events. Please accept my profound regrets.”

  “Thanks, Perry. It hurts, no way around it, but there’s good with the bad. Walls have come down and people have reconciled.

  I’m just so sad for those who suffered in the attacks. No one can give them their lives back. No one. Hopefully, the foundation can at least provide the families with some renewed hope.”

  Montague personally donated fifty thousand dollars to the fund.

  On the sixty-fifth floor, Brenda received Lt. Lloyd Reynolds with her usual cool.

  “My ex-husband was an underworld regular, however suspicious you think the circumstances under which he died. What’s really strange is how long he survived, given the company he kept.”

  She wasn’t in the least surprised when, true to her prediction, Laughton deBrieze parlayed with the chief of police. Whatever was said at that private meeting aboard a police cruiser in the middle of San Francisco Bay, her credibility was restored overnight and her ex-husband’s death ruled a tragic accident.

  Cassie shifted against the dogwood, and Beth smiled up at her. “Fr. B called while you were at school,” she said. “You remember my telling you about Lydia’s catechism classes and the growing interest she had in the Protestant guy with the Barbasol on his neck? Well, it turns out that as soon as Lydia completed catechism, she wanted to join the church, worship Yeshua as Messiah, and propose marriage to shaving cream man! They will be the first wedding at St. John’s since the bats vacated the belfry. Lydia becomes Mrs. James Fields on the last day of Passover. I’m serving at the reception. Want to volunteer?”

  “Can Andre come?”

  Cassie couldn’t hide the fact that the request was unexpected.

  “I know, we’re not the item we once were. But Andre’s been asking questions about life and an afterlife ever since he took his lumps from the intruder. I think it’s time for him to see how a church family operates. Please?”

  “Of course,” Cassie replied. “We’ll put him on beverages. Fr. B wanted me to be sure to tell you he’s come up with a title for his new cathedral newsletter. He’s calling it The Sheepskin: News for Ewes, Rams, and Lambs. I’m supposed to ask you what you think.” She grinned.

  Beth groaned. “Tell him he’s as funny as stale fruitcake.”

  They were silent a time while clouds piled high like mashed potatoes slowly passed overhead.

  “Mom?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You told me once you wished that we — you and I — could be like Jeanne Lanvin and her daughter. You never told me what you meant by that.”

  “Ah.” That was all Cassie said for several minutes. To her credit, Beth waited without comment.

  “Well, you remember me telling you that the Lanvin name is highly regarded among perfumers? But Madame Jeanne Lanvin, the oldest of eleven children, first made her name as one of Europe’s premier fashion designers. She made beautifully feminine dresses for her only child, Marguerite, and when demand for her clothing grew, Madame Lanvin opened a couture house selling mother-daughter garments.

  “So close was the bond between mom and daughter that a famous illustrator captured it in the logo for the House of Lanvin — a little girl at her mother’s knee, both in lavish ball gowns. When the daughter became the talented opera singer Comtesse de Polignac, she always turned out in her famous mother’s beautiful gowns. Because they loved each other so much, they were able to set the standard in youthful mother-daughter fashion for Edwardian England.”

  Cassie went silent again, and when Beth asked her what was wrong, she looked away. “I wanted that closeness for us. Not for you to think I’m a terrible person, leaving you to your own devices, putting people at risk, causing a lot of pain and suffering because of my pride. I’ve asked God and your father to forgive me, but will you?”

  Beth got up on her knees and wrapped slender, tan arms around Cassie’s neck. They sat head to head in silence for a few minutes before Beth said, “You and I are okay. We both lost interest for a time. It happens. But you didn’t knowingly hurt those people. Who knew such a deadly aroma existed in so beautiful a flower?”

  Cassie clung to her daughter’s words, a verbal lifeline in a wave-tossed sea of guilt. She knew what she really needed was to forgive herself.

  Beth wore a worried frown. “Sorry, Mom. Guess I haven’t been a whole lot of encouragement the last year. I used to like it when I was one of the first to get a new Azure scent. And I liked the attention from the other girls, who thought it would be cool to have a mom who made perfume. It was cool, but I guess I had some fantasy going about inventing perfume right along with you. Then other interests came in, then I hit sixteen, thought I was too cool, and resented that you were targeting an older crowd. What did my opinion matter?”

  Cassie held Beth close, rubbing her back like she used to when she was little. “Your opinion means everything to me.”

  “Then is it okay for me to become a UN peacekeeper?”

  Cassie gulped. “Get a good liberal arts education and call me in the morning,” she said, trying to make light of a terrifying prospect. “For all the peace those keepers keep, they do get shot at a fair amount.”

  Beth laughed. “Just testing you, Mom. You kind of passed okay. At least there wasn’t an out-and-out no in there anywhere.”

  “Of course not,” Cassie said. “Are you thinking of some kind of outreach work?”

  “I think so. No offense, but most of the people in our circle spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get ahead. When is it time to give back?”

  Cassie smiled at her daughter’s altruism and the rapid growing up she’d done in just a few short weeks. What was it Emily Dickinson said? “The truth must dazzle gradually or every man be blind.”

  “Who are you, oh wise one?” Cassie said aloud. “I thought you were leaning toward hairstyling — or at least a certain hairstylist. And since when do you use inordinate in a sentence?”

  Beth stared into the distance. “Hair is just there to keep skin cancer at bay. And Andre uses inordinate a lot. He thinks most women use an inordinate amount of hairspray. I want to do something meaningful, something that counts. Like midwifery. Well-baby care. Bush clinic. Jungle surgery.”

  “Whoa there, Dr. Livingston. You’re not so good with needles, remember. And the last time you had to cut up a chicken for dinner, I thought you’d pass out.”

  “I was dehydrated from tennis, Mother. A little Gatorade and I was fine.”

  They made a face at each other and bu
rst out laughing. “I wish we had recorded that little exchange,” said Cassie. “All I’m saying is, liberal arts before medical school. You want to be a person of broad interests.”

  Beth sighed and rolled her eyes in the way of all daughters when their mothers are being especially parental. Cassie didn’t blame her. “How are you at heights?”

  “Serious?”

  “Serious. Thursday night. If I don’t get back there soon, they’ll revoke my leotard. Think you can do it?”

  Beth lifted her nose high in the air. “If someone your age can do it, how hard can it be?”

  Cassie pulled her sassy-tongued offspring into a bear hug and buried her nose in the clean, youthful scalp. “Mmmm. You smell good.”

  “I’m not wearing anything,” Beth said. “It’s just me.”

  “I know.” Cassie tightened her grip on her daughter. “I know.”

  Chapter 26

  The Waronai chieftain lay in the little clearing near the stream that had given life through three wives, nine children, a dozen tribal wars, and enough days for his body to shrivel and rebel. It wasn’t the accumulated hatchet scars, spear thrusts, and burnt flesh that had finished his days. It was the ancestors calling him home. In the days since the theft of the sacred flower stink, it was as if every one of his dead had slipped inside his body, he supposed by entering through his nose or mouth while he slept, or perhaps through some other orifice while he bathed naked in the stream.

  All he knew with certainty was that this was the day of his leaving. He had forbidden either tribesmen or kinsmen to fetch the husk he would leave behind. He wanted flesh and bones to decay into the same earth in which the roots of the sacred flower grew. In the next season, when the flower birthed again, it would draw him up from the ground into itself, and they would be one in a way not even he and his wives had achieved.

  He peered through slitted eyes at the plant by which he slept. It was a faded apparition of its once-fertile, succulent glory. He had sent the warriors back to the village, but he had remained until the flower stopped itself and died. The death was swift and the bloom soon turned brown and ugly. He watched its fall to the earth, there despite its royalty to collapse inward, turn to crisp, and then to dust.