Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  News of Mrs. Scoville’s passing was kept from Omie for three days, in case it should upset her and bring about a further relapse. Her recovery from whatever malady assailed her was slow in any case, and Zoe spent most of her time, day and night, beside Omie’s bed. Sometimes the furniture twitched and jumped under Omie’s unconscious influence, and once Zoe awakened from a shallow sleep to see a pair of softly chiming bells of silver come drifting through the room, tied together with undulating ribbon of deepest red. Zoe thought they sounded too sweet to be church bells, and so did not take their appearance for an omen of death. There were subtle fluctuations of temperature at odd times in Omie’s room, and the lamps often burned with greater intensity for minutes at a time for no apparent reason. Throughout all this, Omie slept and sweated and chewed her lips, and was not truly awake even when she drank water poured from the pitcher at Zoe’s elbow.

  While she stood vigil, Zoe could not help but wonder if she would do the same for her husband, and if she did, would it be largely for propriety’s sake, rather than a hunger to be near the one she loved during a time of danger? She preferred not to address the question too closely. Her marriage was not without material comforts, and she still had Omie, her strange elf-girl, unique in all the world. Leo had his mines.

  Eleven days after her condition began, Omie awoke from it as if from a troubled sleep, and declared herself starving for pancakes and syrup. These were made and dispatched to her, and Zoe watched as Omie ate greedily. When she was finished, Omie wiped her mouth undaintily on her sleeve and said, “She’s in a house that isn’t there, but she thinks it is.”

  “Who, dear?”

  “Mrs. Scoville. She’s in a house full of people, but the house isn’t there, she just thinks it is, and she tells them all what to do, and they pay her money.”

  “I see. Are you … aware that Mrs. Scoville has died?”

  “I know. She’s in hell, but she thinks she’s in heaven. She’s so silly. It was the dark man who did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Killed her. He’s … I think he’s the angel of death. He used to frighten me, but not anymore. He frightened her, though. She jumped right out of herself and ran away. The money’s under her bed.”

  “The money the people in her imaginary house pay her?”

  “That’s not real. I mean the money she stole. It’s under her bed.”

  “Stole from who, dear?”

  “From whom, Mama. From us. She thought about it when she jumped out of herself and ran away. She was running away from the money as well as the dark man, but she couldn’t turn around because it was too late by then, because she was dead. She ran too far, Mama.”

  “Shall I order you more pancakes?”

  “I’d puke it all up.”

  “Then I won’t bother. Would you like me to read to you instead?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Later that day, Zoe found the satchel where Omie had said. She did not mention it to Leo, who came home in a foul mood over some kind of mechanical difficulty at the smelter. He had expressed relief at Omie’s recovery, bolted a meal and returned to the blackened far side of the valley to oversee the repairs being carried out there.

  26

  The room, when finished, would be known as the Grand Concourse, and be filled with sofas and love seats, the furniture of dalliance and flirtation. It occupied virtually all of the first floor of a building at the edge of Denver; upstairs were a further two floors of bedrooms. The Grand Concourse had windows along the front, but these would be kept under permanent cover by heavy velvet drapes, the color of which would be determined by Nevis, once he had completed his artistic work on the walls. For the moment, he required the light that came streaming through onto his three vast “canvases.”

  His employer, the finely dressed gentleman who had appeared at his bedside, was Mr. Adair, but Mr. Adair would not say for whom he worked. Nevis Dunnigan had been hired to decorate a new brothel, but he reminded himself it would not be just any brothel; when completed, it would be the finest between Saint Louis and San Francisco, and he had been promised that his signature would never be erased from the walls. In addition to the chance for immortality and the direct appreciation of his talent by large numbers of people, Nevis was being paid handsomely for his creative endeavors.

  Mr. Adair had left the proposed mural’s theme open to Nevis, merely stipulating that it should be “of the most uncompromisingly sensual nature, Mr. Dunnigan, the kind of thing that makes a man hard, you see, the moment he lays eyes on it. Minute detail, lascivious poses, much mounting of female flesh by the rampant male is what’s called for here, don’t you think? Breasts and buttocks, sir, the artist’s bread and butter.”

  Nevis pondered his commission. He had no qualms about depicting nudity, this being the sine qua non of the painter, but felt he should grant the project an air of intellectual justification by pursuing some classic theme, rather than covering the walls with anonymous and random acts of copulation. Inspiration steered him before long to a worthy subject, and he made it known at once to Mr. Adair.

  “The Rape of the Sabine Women. Yes, yes, I like that idea, Mr. Dunnigan. We have inherent in the theme a great deal of fornicatory possibilities, yet we also have the, how shall I say it, the prestige and artistic authenticity of ancient times to commend the thing, make it more …”

  “Acceptable?”

  “Acceptable, yes. The clientele anticipated will not be riffraff, Mr. Dunnigan, and they will appreciate, some of them, the historical significance of the event you intend depicting. I am most pleased. Make a list, if you would, of all your needs: paints and brushes, models and so on.”

  “Models?”

  “Dear me, yes. Without the human form to work from, how can we expect an artist such as yourself to give of his best? You shall have as many bodies as you need, sir, and the humor of it is that they’ll all be working here in any case when the preparations are complete. I hadn’t actually considered that before. Why, a customer might make his selection from the wall, so to speak, if the young lady is occupied elsewhere at the time, and unavailable for inspection in the flesh. Now, that’s a selling point, Mr. Dunnigan, a wonderful crowd-getter, not that we’ll be catering to crowds as such, but word of this will get around, oh, yes, and won’t they flock here to see what you’ve done and compare it with the goods on display! Most pleased, Mr. Dunnigan.”

  Nevis quickly assembled a series of scaled-down drawings that conveyed his intention for the room as a whole. There were fifty-three nude studies to be made in all, thirty-seven of them female. All the Sabine women would be nude, or draped with wisps of flimsy material so fine their nipples could be seen, and their male assailants would be partially armored, as befitted troops of the conquering Roman army, but such armor as Nevis granted them would largely be confined to the upper torso. “Include the male appendage in abundance, Mr. Dunnigan,” his employer had instructed, “and be sure to enhance its dimensions somewhat, for added effect. Clubs, Mr. Dunnigan, cocks and balls, orbs and scepters, the weaponry of love, don’t you know, every man a stud horse and every woman a mare in submission.”

  Nevis was disappointed that the first of his models was a young man. Mr. Adair apologized for this, and explained that the girls could not be spared just yet from their more lucrative work, but they would be forthcoming, one at a time, as Nevis required. Meantime, he could complete studies of the soldiery with the aid of the young man. Mr. Adair made it known that male models were a sight harder to come by than females, at least in Denver, so Nevis would have to use the one and only willing participant thus far to create several different poses, altering his physical characteristics a little each time, so as to make it appear there had been many individual models.

  Nevis began work, arranging his model, in breastplate and helmet, in an attitude of uncompromising threat, with sword held high in one hand, while the other cupped an invisible breast. This left hand was missing its little finger, but Nevis could ov
erlook the loss and sketch in the digit. While he worked, he asked the model for his name.

  “Ilium.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Jay Ilium.”

  “Unusual name, Mr. Ilium. You’re probably aware that Ilium was the Latin name for Troy. Have you read Homer, Mr. Ilium?”

  “I have.”

  “Also the name of a bone in the human skeleton. Let me think … I was familiar with them all as a student of anatomy—an art student, I mean, not the medical kind, but we did receive a thorough grounding in such basics, just to ensure we could draw a foot that looked like a foot. Ilium. Not a foot bone—talus, tarsal, metatarsal. Let me think now … atlas, axis, coccyx, costal, humerus, radius, ulna, carpal, metacarpal … pelvis, ischium, ilium! Hipbone, sir.”

  “Bones aren’t as romantic as Troy.”

  “We are not responsible for what we’re called, Mr. Ilium. May I call you Jay?”

  “Please do.”

  “Nevis is the name I bear, but Dunnigan is what will appear on these walls: N. Dunnigan. Have you engaged in this line of work before, Jay Ilium?”

  “Nope.”

  “What line do you regularly pursue, if I might ask?”

  “Any line at all, so long as it pays.”

  “A free man, then. I am bound by my calling, for better or worse. Are you a wanderer, by any chance? Free men often are.”

  “I’ve strayed this way and that.”

  “Adventures?”

  “Incidents,” said Drew, after reflection.

  “Mine have been confined to canvas. For the next month or two it will be my task to rape several dozen women, figuratively speaking. How did you happen to be chosen for my first model?”

  “Your friend Mr. Adair came up to me on the street and asked if I was hungry, which I was, and he bought me a solid meal. The least I could do was listen. He’s paying me a dollar an hour to stand like this, not bad wages.”

  “And what will you do with your hard-earned dollars at the end of the day?”

  “Get another meal,” Drew lied. He intended getting back his gun. Since deserting from the army three years before, he had worked as hired hand for a number of outfits, farming or cowboying, and lately had become discontented over his inability to accrue a sizable wad of cash. Drew was twenty-two years old, and he did not like his life. The only solution to such disappointment seemed to lie in the immediate gratification of his need for money, in quantity. A gun would give him the means to that end. He had owned a Colt on first arriving in Denver, but had been obliged to pawn it. He would redeem the pawn, since the gun had sentimental value, and the cost of a new gun would not be covered by the limited nature of the work he was engaged in. When it was back in its holster, he would enter a bank and rob the place. He had not yet selected which bank to make the withdrawal from, but was in no particular hurry. Drew was aware that haste is the enemy of success.

  This unusual job of art modeling was special, in that it would be his last lawful employment. He had broken the law many times while working for Marion de Quille back in Texas, but avoidance of import taxes had hardly been a hanging offense. Bank holdups would be different, a whole new way of life, and Drew was cynical enough, young as he was, to believe that not much else would give him any kind of satisfaction. He had made his choice, and intended making his move.

  “America is dying, Mr. Ilium, Jay.”

  “Is that right.”

  “Don’t be misled by the hustle and bustle of the big town. There is spiritual decay abroad in the land. I don’t refer to a general turning away from God, no, I’m of atheistic persuasion myself, but I have seen a steady whittling away at our moral armature, the skeletal values, so to say, of society. There are few idealists left. Everything must be done for the sake of the dollar, and for no other reason. Art and beauty have no intrinsic worth unless they be of a type worth marketing to an uncultured populace, and that, sir, is a tragedy. I myself would prefer to decorate a house of flesh than to paint portraits of rich men and their jeweled wives. No such toadying for me. This enterprise we both are engaged in, each in his fashion, is more honest than that, I truly believe.”

  “Could be you’re right.”

  Nevis sketched on, thinking of Lovey Doll Pines and the many other women who had rejected him for his poverty, while Drew stood with raised sword, thinking of his gun.

  Business was bad for Noble Burgin; the Arcadian Players had not succeeded in winning either the hearts or the attention of their audience during their latest engagement at Behan’s Theater and Saloon. Noble had always been leery of alcohol’s close proximity to any stage upon which he took his troupe, and Behan’s had proven once again that the mixing of drink and drama resulted in poor performances on the boards and wounded dignity backstage.

  The clientele at Behan’s simply did not appreciate a good play. The Arcadians should have been engaged for an extended run at one of Denver’s finest theaters, a place of chandeliers and silk brocade curtains and plush carpeting, not the sawdust-floored imbiber’s barn they currently graced. Noble was doubly upset because the play they were presenting was from his own pen, and he considered it his finest offering to date, far and away the best of his dramas. A Heart Divided had a wonderful story line, in Noble’s opinion; Flora, the winsome heroine, had inherited a goodly sum of money from her ailing father, for whom she had cared at great loss of liberty for herself. Now that she was freed from her father’s sickbed, and had been rewarded for her sacrifice, Flora wished to meet with and marry a nice young man, to begin a life together. She had rejected several suitors whom she considered immodest or unscrupulous, and finally had met, quite by accident, a chaste fellow, pure of heart yet crushingly poor, a doctor who worked among the slum dwellers of New York. This character, Desmond Trueblood, was the perfect match for Flora, but he seemed not to notice her at all, even when she joined him in his work among the poor. Desmond was intensely concerned for the life of little Dorothy Daniels, an orphaned waif of the streets, dying slowly of consumption. Dorothy was not unhappy with her lot, knowing as she did that Jesus was waiting to sweep her up to his home in the sky. Dorothy, on her deathbed in the final scene, exhorted Flora and Desmond to wed, and bring into the world a child to replace herself. They vowed they would, and Dorothy died knowing she had accomplished some good in the world.

  The deathbed speech had caused Noble to weep even as he penned it, and the troupe all agreed it was his finest work, but the clods at Behan’s had merely hooted with laughter and thrown articles of trash at the stage. Behan himself had told Noble the play would end its run early, that very night in fact, and the curtain had come down on his masterpiece for the last time. Noble found it necessary, after calming the Arcadians, to absent himself from their company in order that he might get drunk. There was no other remedy for such outright humiliation and disappointment. Five years had passed since the name of Noble Burgin and his Arcadian Players brought smiles to the faces of theater managers on either coast, and tears to the eyes of all who saw the heartrending plays he brought forth from his soul. Life had been good then, but life now was not good. Something in Noble had become lost, some creative tool worn down by overuse, its edge blunted by repetition, perhaps.

  Ensconced in a bar, Noble attempted to pin down the flaw that rendered all his offerings these last five years unacceptable to the public. He could not see why the plays had failed, since they employed all the devices that had worked so brilliantly in his earlier works. Could that in itself be the root cause of the problem? he asked himself. Was he merely repeating, or attempting to repeat, what had gone before? But he genuinely admired such stuff. What other kind of drama could he possibly attempt? He knew he was no Shakespeare, but success should still have been his.

  He drank brandy, a great deal of it, and eventually tired of attempting to analyze his predicament. He would simply get drunk and forget his worries for an evening. He did not worry about his wife and leading lady, Hortense, since she was in the hands of the Arcadians
at their lowly hotel several blocks away. Hortense did not approve of his drinking bouts, and would sometimes flirt with younger men to punish him. Noble made a point of hiring only those actors who he knew with certainty were not attracted to women, as a measure against Hortense’s betraying him outright. She had performed well as Flora, even though the makeup could not conceal that her years were considerably in advance of her character’s, and the rest of the cast had been similarly excellent in their roles, especially Marcie, who was young and slender enough to play Dorothy convincingly. Noble had lately been experiencing feelings of great tenderness toward Marcie, and felt compelled, on occasion, to place an arm around her shoulders. Hortense had caught him doing this the week before, and warned him never to do any such thing again, or she would leave him and take up with a successful man, any successful man in any field. It had been a hurtful moment, and Noble promised himself never again to do what he had done with Marcie while Hortense was anywhere near.

  A newspaper abandoned by a fellow drinker at the next table caught Noble’s eye, and he reached across to grab it before anyone else should think to. The headlines bored him, since they addressed political issues, a field Noble considered beneath his attention, but on page three he noticed an intriguing banner: RED SAVAGES MEET GRISLY END. He read the article, concerning the capture and deaths of two renegade Apaches named Panther Stalking and Kills With a Smile, and recalled having been aware of the depredations and mayhem these two had created for years in the southwestern territories. Trapped in a box canyon, their ammunition exhausted, the brothers had been attempting to smash their own skulls in with rocks when finally apprehended by an army unit that had been tracking them for weeks. Taken to Socorro and incarcerated in jail, the redskins had outwitted their captors, and thwarted the long-postponed expectations of the authorities to administer a stiff dose of hempen justice, by ignoring their chains and biting each other’s jugular veins open in the night, an act of such bizarre single-mindedness it took Noble’s breath away. He read on, and was apprised of their former names, Nail in His Feet and Bleeding Heart of Jesus, and of the peculiar fashion in which their grandfather and a mysterious youth had stolen the brothers away from a Spanish mission after murdering the priests. Returned to their heathenish way of life, they had reverted quickly to type and begun a bloodthirsty reign that lasted for years, only to end in an appropriately bloody way on the floor of a jail cell.