Ben and Nora listened, waiting to see where she was going. Reluctantly, Nora sipped at the coffee. Then she dumped in as much sugar and creamer as she could, swiping Ben’s share as well.
“That boy broke his mother’s heart. And not because he was really … well, a rather poor, rather stiff musician.”
She took a long sip of her coffee, her brow furrowed, recalling. “Carole had thought that, well, if her own career could not be, because she was a woman, because she had to submit to the will of her father and then to her husband, she was sure that if she taught the boy all she knew, that he would flourish where she could not. Instead of taking the musical education she gave him as the gift that it was, he found it to be one more area where he had failed. He was terribly afraid to perform and fail, to sit on the concert stage and forget the notes or stumble. I attended what was to be his great debut recital, a beautiful program from Scarlatti to Chopin. His hands shook so badly he could not play. He finally left the stage in shame. His father mocked him mercilessly, the attendees could not help but laugh and shake their heads.… It became another cross to bear for him. Sickly, anxious, and then simply not good enough. He never recovered and never played again in public.”
Sister Mary Catherine’s face was riven with sadness now.
“He broke her heart,” she repeated. “Not because he could not perform. But because his relationship with music became so … toxic. It became a cultural icon that he would hold up as an impossible, unattainable standard. She herself, beautiful accomplished musician that she was, became … repugnant to him. He was horrible to her.”
Nora struggled to relate. For a moment she could feel again the weight of towering words teetering on her tongue. Her mother had been anxious to have Nora spout classical Arabic poetry even when she was little, even when the words were nonsense to her. Transplanted onto this soil, where poetry seemed scant and words weightless, Nora’s mother had insisted. She had needed Nora to hear how the words were woven into the weft of timeless meters born of an ancient pulse.
Still, Nora thought. I never got shaky over the idea of forgetting a line from Imru al-Qays. And even though he’s a thousand times more advanced than Shakespeare a thousand years earlier, I never lorded it over anyone.… And, her heart twisted at the memory, I was always gentle with my mother.
She glanced at Ben to find him watching her. She quickly focused on Sister Mary Catherine’s gentle voice.
“Carole Martin tried hard to redirect her son who seemed to be foundering on all fronts. She even made him come to me, to come volunteer, feeding the hungry. But he could only see as far as their skin color, and here in Erie—well, at that time, there were few hungry whites. These days hunger does not discriminate. Either way, I was unable to cultivate in him compassion because he could only view poverty and powerlessness as failure.”
“So Carole Martin gave up? Disowned him?”
“He disowned her, really. Walked out on her quite famously. Left Erie when she was most ill. When she made her bequests, she thought that increasing him in wealth might be dangerous.”
“Why did Mrs. Martin pick your order for her gift?” Ben asked.
“Well … Carole always regretted not being more assertive, not standing up for herself, not doing more … and we Benedictine sisters have a reputation for being feisty. I’ve been arrested four times, you know!” She said this as though it were a badge of honor.
“What was the reason, Sister?” Ben asked.
“Protesting the war in Iraq. Protesting street violence. Protesting gun violence. And most recently protesting a candidate for national office who had the audacity to try to spread fear in our city. We sisters don’t sit still too often.”
Ben and Nora smiled, both looking around. “How many people do you feed a day?”
“Now? With so many of the old factories closed? Over fifteen hundred. All colors and races and creeds. We are united in our need to eat, you know. Our dependence on God’s bounty. No matter who you are, or where you’re from, eventually you’re going to get hungry. We can’t feed them all, but we do our best every day. It’s all we can do.”
They thanked her and walked out into the darkness. It was, by this time, past 10 P.M.
“She’s amazing,” said Nora.
Ben nodded.
“You gonna come camp out at the compound with me?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, kissing her temple and then wrapping his arm around her shoulders as they walked.
“You’re kinda…” She wiggled, trying to find a position which wouldn’t push her gun holster into her flesh.
“Yeah, it’s not so easy. Switch sides.”
They adjusted and shifted about until they found a comfortable way to walk.
“Well, of all the things I just picked up, there’s one that stands out,” Nora said.
Ben brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “What’s that?”
“I may have to give this Wagner guy a listen after all.”
* * *
They shared what they’d found with Chid and Ford.
“Well,” said Chid, “There’s nothing like a disgraced and disempowered rich guy to be brooding for a decade and then unleash hell.”
For their part, the two had been sharing their discoveries with Schacht. Something like a plan was being hatched. The Telegram app had exploded with the rage of the group at having been subverted during their occupation. Promises of the Third Day being grim abounded.
But the Third Day would be the Third Day. Sanchez had at least secured from Baker the promise that no actions would be taken until the next day.
“Is that a promise Baker will keep?”
“He’s been very deliberate so far,” Ford said. “Geyer-slash-Martin’s orders, perhaps, but they are obeyed to the T, not one bit more.”
As such, Schacht had issued orders to all the agents to sleep five hours and then come to the compound at dawn.
Ben and Nora walked back to her apartment.
“We could just run in there,” she said, pulling the key out from behind the brick.
“In where?” said Ben, yawning.
“Into that barn they’re holding him in. Just bust our way in and grab him and go.”
“Yes, Nora. We could,” he answered, tired. “Let’s do it first thing in the morning.”
“Well, Benjamin Calder. I never thought I’d see you run out of gas.”
“We’re all half dead, woman.” After they pulled off their holsters, they shed their clothes in a pile and fell into bed in their underwear and T-shirts. Nora shoved away her shyness about being so unclothed in front of him, finding some deep, distant place to store it. It was immaterial now, she knew. What was elemental was to lie curled next to Ben. She began thinking of what he’d said about losing patience with their agreement not to move to the next level.
But the still, dark room and the safety of his arm around her, her head on his shoulder and his almost immediate, even breathing, pulled her into a deep sleep that she realized she had never needed so much.
* * *
Even so, her sleep was brief. After only two hours, her eyes jerked open, and she found herself staring at the ceiling in the dimness. Soft strains of violin music seeped down from above. It sounded to Nora like a lament for the dead.
She carefully disentwined herself from Ben’s arms. He stirred, frowning, and peered at her. “What is it?” he whispered.
“It’s nothing. But I need to talk to my neighbor Rachel upstairs. I’ll be back. Sleep. I mean it.”
He squinted at her in the dimness. “I’ll come with you.”
“No. Sleep. I’ll be right back.”
She kissed him softly and then slid into her yoga pants. She was about to walk out barefoot, but then remembered her lesson about sneakers. Always. I will always wear my sneakers. Sneakers save lives.
She went outside into a warm, still night. Enough stars were visible overhead to convince her that growing up in Philadelphia had per
manently destroyed her ability to understand what a night sky should look like. She pressed Rachel’s doorbell, then took the extra measure of texting her that it was she, Nora, who was attempting to intrude.
The footfalls on the wooden staircase were loud and rapid. Rachel pushed open her brand-new front door and threw her arms around Nora. “I’ve been so worried about you!” she declared.
Nora hugged her back. “Thanks, I’m okay. I’m sorry to bug you.”
“I woke you?” Rachel said, guilt clouding her eyes.
“No. Well, I’m not sure. Maybe. But I need to talk to you if you have a minute.”
Rachel nodded. “Of course. Come up?”
Nora followed her up the creaky staircase.
“Tea?” Rachel asked.
“No, nothing,” Nora said. “Just … can you talk to me a little about Wagner?”
Rachel raised her eyebrows and asked, “Wagner again?”
Nora nodded.
“What do you want to know?” Rachel asked, settling onto her soft red couch.
Nora folded a leg beneath herself and sat down at the opposite end. “I don’t know. What do you know about the Ring?”
“Alberich’s Ring? Like in the Ring Cycle?”
“Yep,” confirmed Nora.
Rachel thought a moment and then said, “I guess the key point is you have to forswear love to attain it. After that … well…” She ticked off on her fingers: “Don’t turn yourself into a toad if you want to keep it. Don’t bargain with giants for it. Don’t trick Amazons into giving it to you. It’s best left with the mermaids, frankly.”
Nora ran her fingers through her loose curls. “Why a ring?”
Rachel considered this. Just as Nora thought she had no answer to offer, she spoke, her voice very quiet, very slow. “I rather think it’s about taking a thing of beauty and using it in the wrong way for all the wrong reasons and ultimately destroying yourself. And a ring by definition has the convenient bonus of showing us the circularity of our habits in doing this.”
Nora turned Rachel’s words over, weighing them. “I really hate Wagner right now. I’m trying to sort out why I even have to know his name. A little old nun lady told me his music was divine. I want to understand from you, a musician, what the deal is.”
“Ah,” said Rachel, inhaling deeply. She flicked through the files on her phone and tapped one. The wireless speaker system glowed and sprang to life.
“The operas?”
“Dramas,” she corrected. “This is Das Rheingold.” They both listened a moment. Rachel studied Nora’s reaction. At length, she said, “Look, the music is … well, you’d have to be nuts to think it was bad. It’s exciting and stirring and unearthly and yet very real, very tightly constructed, very … sound. It’s hard to back up a claim that it’s outright bad, though some critics did at first.”
Nora, who was still deciding, tried to listen around these words.
Rachel pressed on. “I think your real problem is, Where does music start and the composer end?”
Nora said nothing.
“It’s the same with artists, too. I can name fifty horrendous people who produced some of the world’s most transcendent paintings.”
Nora tilted her head, considering. “Well, see, my grandfather would have said that is reason enough to discard their productions and listen to God’s birds instead of music or look at his sunsets instead of pictures.”
“Well, your grandfather would have missed out,” Rachel said simply.
They sat listening in silence.
Finally, Rachel said carefully, “Look, as a musician, I can tell you that some bastard trying to link these works with acts of terror is devastating to me … and a terrible affront. It is as devastating, surely, as it must be for some pious person who reads scripture in order to connect with God … only to realize that some other bastard is using the words of scripture to call for violence.”
Despite herself, Nora found tears pooling in her eyes as Rachel spoke.
“Whatever he was, or however the Nazis used him, or however this guy is using him, Wagner wasn’t about bloodshed. Unlike God … well, or maybe like God, he was just sort of a dick.”
Nora flinched.
“But still. He was all bluster and his music … well, someone like me would say its ability to endure might even absolve him, although some of my Jewish colleagues might argue that point. But ask Daniel Barenboim who dared have the Israeli Philharmonic play a bit from Tristan and Isolde, a passionate, tragic romantic opera. The audience itself debated it on the spot, invoking the Holocaust and concentration camps. They called Barenboim a fascist. But in the end … they gave him a standing ovation.”
Nora murmured, “Brave.”
Rachel shrugged. “If the musicians can’t come together there’s honestly no hope. It’s the only language we have that’s universal. Well, except math. But everyone hates math. It just can’t compare.”
Nora laughed.
“But, listen, Nora. I think he used racial arguments and cultural patriotism to argue for his own preeminence because they were convenient and because he was vain—he wanted to do whatever he could to convince people they should listen to him instead of the competition, which often happened to be Jewish. He was self-serving, you know? It was a means to an end.”
Nora fell still, listening to the ebb and flow of the orchestra and unearthly voices of women interwoven with the instruments. At last she said, “So. That such arguments still matter in our day…?”
“Means it’s not Wagner who’s the fuck-up. It’s us.”
THIRD DAY
Sunlight was just edging over the horizon when Ben, Nora, Chid, and Ford approached the compound the next morning. Barriers had been erected to prevent access from the east and the west alike. Ben showed his credentials to the earnest state trooper and was given access to the stretch of road leading up to the compound. There was no real driveway, although it occurred to Nora that perhaps once there had been gravel along this trail. Now, it was only a path that had been worn through the brush and weeds from cars or trucks repeatedly driving over it. The lot was otherwise overgrown with trees and brush, undistinguishable from any other thickly wooded lot along Route 5. The swarm of law enforcement vehicles seemed to have been pushing in incrementally, flattening weeds, pushing back against the edges of the compound. The array of cars and SUVs now littered the property’s edges, striking a sharp contrast with the thick, wild stretch of green.
Ben pulled Nora’s car alongside another unmarked car. He flashed his credentials at yet another state trooper. He was determined to get the Malibu up a little further into the thick of things and away from the gathering crowd of onlookers. Nora wondered if they were drawn by the sound of hovering helicopters. The SWAT helicopter was on the lakeside, a few miles in, but the sound cut through the still morning air and hung over the scene like a pall. Media helicopters were making a wide perimeter over the general area. Nora looked up and thought of vultures.
She shuddered.
Descending from the car, they immediately saw a cluster of people talking, Schacht at the center.
Schacht glanced up at the four of them. He looked as though he had several different things to say simultaneously, but he ultimately chose not to acknowledge them verbally at all and continued conferring with Sanchez and Rogers.
Nora noted that the Bearcat SWAT trucks were parked one next to the other, their idling engines spilling foul smells into the otherwise pristine air.
“Smells like Philly,” Ben said.
Nora laughed despite herself. “That’s where I recognized it.…”
Sheila and Anna pulled Nora aside.
“How are you?” Sheila demanded. “Do you have any details for me?”
“Nothing new,” Nora said. “Just all the stuff Chid’s been reporting about who Geyer really is. They’re a good team, those guys, Chid and Ford.”
Sheila nodded, her gaze falling upon the agents from Philadelphia.
Nor
a decided to use on Sheila the words she wanted to use on Schacht. “What are you guys doing for Pete? How are you going to get him out of this?”
“I swear, Nora, if it were up to me, we’d be swinging through windows, grabbing our boy, then firing missiles on their whole compound right now.”
“The barn doesn’t have windows,” Nora pointed out. “So who’s it up to?” she asked, knowing anyway.
“The attorney general, actually,” responded Sheila. “They don’t want—”
“Another Waco,” Nora chimed in. “Yes, we get that. They ignored the Oregon militia because they didn’t want another Waco. They’re holding back now on the most repulsive criminals the country has ever known because they don’t want another Waco.”
Sheila heard her. “The Oregon militia was a joke—”
“We all know,” Nora said hotly, “that it would not have been funny if they had been any color other than white.”
Sheila had no response. “Give Schacht and these guys a chance, Nora. They’re trying to avoid a bloodbath.”
“The PR of it is ignoring the facts on the ground. These people are monsters.”
“Yes, they are. And I know you know the story of the hydra.” Sheila gave her a look that made it crystal-clear that she had, at most, slept four hours of the last thirty-six.
Nora was not sure at all that she knew any stories about a hydra and made yet another mental note to ask Chid.
“Give Schacht a chance,” she repeated.
“His strategy got April Lewis killed.”
“His strategy revealed to the world how small and cold-blooded Gabe Baker is,” answered Sheila. “For better or for worse. That wasn’t the intention, but it was the result. It’s all we’ve got right now,” she added.
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