Stone Angel

by Carol O’Connell

  “Not entirely. Sometimes the echolalia is an effort at direct response. When he echoes what you say, don’t you feel he’s communicating?”

  “Well, yes, and I did tell them that, but they said it didn’t count.”

  “I faxed them pages from Cass Shelley’s journals on Ira’s therapy. He was remarkably articulate for a small child. No difficulty with personal pronouns – that’s atypical. He showed a normal grasp of grammar and syntax. She rated his intelligence in the upper ten percentile. The Dallheim people didn’t know about that, either.”

  “But the screening test – ”

  “One simple conversation. There’s a way to get a quick result. It’s a method Cass Shelley used when Ira had his setback. She forced him to talk. It may be very rough on him. I have to get him to focus for a while, but I won’t do anything Cass wouldn’t have done. The director suggested I go for a traumatic event, like the violent death of his doctor. He’ll talk to me just to make it end, to get rid of me, but he will talk. I only need a few direct responses to questions and the screening requirement is satisfied.”

  Anyone would talk under torture. Given Ira’s fear and revulsion of the human touch, what he planned to do to the boy was very cruel.

  She nodded, looking more hopeful now. “But he stopped talking before that happened. It was the faith healing that did the damage. Cass was real upset with his father for taking him to that freak show.”

  He had agreed with the sheriff that it would be a bad idea to mention the certainty that Ira had witnessed the murder. But this should have come out long ago. Ira could not wait forever.

  “The death of a mentor is a major trauma, but I could try another approach. I understand Ira lost his father within a year of Cass Shelley’s death. That would have been a devastating event.”

  “No, not really. That last year, his father didn’t spend much time with him. He tried taking Ira to a doctor in New Orleans for vitamin therapy. When that didn’t work, I guess he just gave up on the boy. He gave up on everything.”

  “And you? Have you given up?”

  “No. I guess I – ” She looked down at the tight fists in her lap. “You have to put your hands on him, don’t you? Cass did that. You know that’s like real pain to him? He can’t stand it – it terrifies him.”

  “I know that. It’s your decision.”

  Darlene shook her head, more in indecision than a negative response. “He’s happy in his own world. I don’t think he’d like this one much, do you?”

  “He might never fully appreciate being – ”

  “Human?” She seemed tensed for a fight, or at least a reproach.

  “He’s always been that. I think Ira’s only more intense about day-to-day life than we are. It’s not that he’s unaware of the world around him. Ira is frighteningly aware of every detail of the universe. It’s threatening to overload his consciousness. He must pull the plug, shut the world down now and then, or he could not survive. And he knows this. Ira is a very sophisticated human being.”

  And because of Ira’s gifts and his strange vision, Charles found him to be exquisitely beautiful.

  “The program you have him in now is tailored for the mentally retarded. I’m sure he’s making progress, but that type of school has severe limitations.” He produced the faxed forms with the Dallheim letterhead. “Perhaps you could fill in the medical history while I talk to Ira. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

  Before they reached the door to Ira’s room, the boy had begun to sing. Charles recognized the aria from the cemetery concert. Darlene put her hand on the door and hesitated. She smiled as she hovered on this periphery, basking in the music of her mysterious child. Then the door opened, and Ira, suddenly alarmed, stopped singing.

  The door closed, and Ira was left alone with the sandwich man. His large visitor sat down on the bed and talked softly for a while, as Ira rocked back and forth on his heels, not listening, blocking it out and searching for a safe place inside his head.

  The man stood up and came toward him.

  No! Don’t!

  Ira backed up to the wall. The sandwich man grabbed him by the shoulders and repeated the words until they became real, intruding on his mind with sense and weight. He was using Dr. Cass’s words.

  He remembered Cass’s face before him, forcing the jarring contact of the eyes, holding him by the shoulders, insisting. “Say one thing that is real, that is you, just one thing, just for me.”

  Now he said to the sandwich man, “I am afraid.”

  The man dropped his hands away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph of Dr. Cass. “Look at this, Ira. Tell me about the day she died. I know you were there. What did you see?”

  Ira said nothing. The sandwich man grabbed his shoulders again. His face was coming closer. His eyes -

  “Rocks!” Ira screamed. And then he went rigid, waiting for the man to keep the old rules of the game.

  The sandwich man released him. An hour passed in this way. The big man would come toward him, and Ira would concentrate on the words. If he spoke, the sandwich man would back away.

  “Who threw the rocks? Do you remember the deputy being there? Deputy Travis?”

  Ira started to flap his hands. The man advanced on him. Ira covered his ears and began to rock frantically. The sandwich man pulled Ira’s hands away from his head. The man’s voice was louder now. “Was the deputy there? A man in a uniform?”

  Ira nodded, but the sandwich man still held on to his hands, for nodding was not good enough. There were rules.

  “Did he throw rocks at Cass?”

  “He threw rocks at the dog.”

  The man let go of Ira’s hands and lowered his voice. “Did you see people throwing rocks at Cass Shelley?”

  “They listened to the blue letter. Cass never said a word. And then she was red. The dog lay down in the dirt. He cried. The deputy hit him with another rock. He didn’t move again. Cass was all red. They left. All quiet.”

  He had run from the house, from the bleeding bodies, dog and mistress. He had departed from the road and waded into the thickness of the water, slapping himself, testing the parameters, finding out where his body ended and the bayou began. He kept falling, water filling his mouth and choking him. Then as the muddy liquid was coughed back to the bayou, he knew the edges of self and the beginning of water, even before his father screamed in anguish and rushed into Finger Bayou to drag him back to the solid ground, and finally to home and bed, saying all the while, “Ira, what were you doing there?” But Ira couldn’t answer his father. He was still seeing images of Cass mingling her blood with the dog’s.

  The sandwich man came toward him again. “I need a direct answer to a direct question, Ira. Do you know who threw rocks at Cass? Did you see -

  “Daddy.” He began to rock, harder and harder, consoling himself as only he could do. He had never looked outside himself for comfort. Outside was only pain.

  “What?”

  “Daddy threw the first rock at Dr. Cass.” Ira beat his head against the wall.

  The sandwich man restrained him. “Your father was part of the mob?”

  “Yes!” he screamed, his back sliding along the wall. He sank down to the floor. “Daddy! Daddy threw rocks at Cass!”

  “That’s enoughl” His mother stood by the open door, hands covering her face, and she was shaking.

  “Mommy, make him go!”

  And his tiny mother did make the large man go. She pushed the sandwich man out of the room and slammed the door after him.

  Now she came at Ira, falling to her knees in front of him, as he drew in his legs and made himself into a ball. Her hands danced all about his face and body, never touching him, wild to get at him, but fluttering only, like terrified birds that could never light on any branch of arm or leg for fear of causing him fresh pain.

  CHAPTER 19

  When Charles knocked on Augusta’s door, Henry Roth admitted him and made the common sign for silence. “Augusta has compan
y.”

  Charles entered the kitchen as Riker was holding out his identification and detective’s shield for Augusta’s approval.

  She bent low and squinted over the small card bearing the detective’s photograph. “I need my eyeglasses. I won’t be but a minute.” She gave Charles a curt nod in passing and hastily disappeared into the other room across the hall.

  Glasses?

  She had never needed them before. In fact, on the day they met, he had found it odd that she could read the fine print on his business card with no trouble at all.

  Now he turned to Riker, who was looking around the room with great interest.

  “Let me guess,” said Charles. “You’ve been following Henry.”

  “Yeah.” Riker turned around to face the sculptor. He spoke slowly for the benefit of the man he believed to be a deaf lip-reader. “Not your fault, pal. You were pretty good at shaking off that rookie deputy, but you didn’t figure on a second cop, did you?”

  Augusta returned with a pair of glasses set low on her nose. The antique frames and thick lenses must have belonged to some ancestor with badly impaired vision. Her eyes were greatly magnified.

  Curious.

  “Now let’s have a good look,” she said, leaning closer to Riker’s identification card. Now she was staring intently at his face. “Well, that’s a real good picture of you.” She introduced him to Henry and Charles, adding, “Mr. Butler’s been kind enough to help me with a few legal problems settling an estate.”

  It was an interesting moment in the complications of deceit. Riker had not acknowledged him, in keeping with the lie that they were unconnected; Augusta was maintaining the executor’s ruse; and Henry appeared to be keeping everyone’s confidence, or, in plain parlance, he ducked. Charles elected to follow suit as he shook hands with Riker.

  Augusta went to the stove and began to stir the contents of a pot. “You’ll all stay for lunch, I hope.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you, ma’am.” said Riker. “I’m looking for information on the sheriff’s prisoner. Her name is Mallory.”

  “Well, I can direct you to the sheriff’s office. You go through the cemetery and come out on the road back to the bridge and – ”

  “I’ve already seen the sheriff. He says the prisoner broke jail, ma’am. Day before yesterday.”

  “Oh, my Lord.” She turned slowly and walked back to the table in faltering steps. Alarmed, Charles moved toward her. Standing just behind Riker, Henry Roth motioned him to back off.

  Augusta sank down to a chair at the table, and Henry’s hands flew into silent explanation. “It’s the strategy of the southern woman. She can lift her weight in canned goods, but right now she’s trying to convey that she is fragile.”

  She seemed to be conveying it rather well. Riker’s face was filled with genuine concern. He only saw the gray hair, the lined face, the greatly enlarged blue eyes of a woman who must be half blind to need such thick lenses.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Riker. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Augusta waved the air weakly, as though fighting for breath. “Water?”

  Riker flew to the sink to fetch a glass and fill it. He brought it back to her and then pulled up a chair on the other side of the table.

  “Why, thank you.” She gripped the glass with both hands and sipped the water. “I can’t imagine it. A murderer loose in Dayborn.”

  “I don’t know if she actually killed anybody,” said Riker. “I don’t think you’re in any danger.”

  “Now that’s a real comfort. Do you think you’ll catch her soon?”

  “I don’t have the authority to arrest anybody, ma’am. I’m just visiting in Louisiana.”

  Augusta’s hand delicately fluttered up to her face and she smiled almost shyly. “Oh, well isn’t that nice.”

  Henry’s hands were flying with the translation: “Dithering ambiguity to avoid tipping her hand or taking up sides.”

  “I think this Mallory woman can help me,” said Riker. “You see, I’m working on a homicide case.”

  Augusta’s hand covered her mouth. “Oh, well isn’t that awful.”

  Henry explained that this was a companion tenet to ‘Isn’t that nice,’ and had about the same meaning.

  “I understand her mother was killed by a mob. Do you have any idea what – ”

  She moaned and put the back of her hand to her forehead. “I can’t bear to think back on that terrible murder.”

  Henry explained that this rather antiquated maneuver was called ‘the vapors.’ It was used to table a discussion, and bide time.

  “I’m sorry to put you through this, ma’am,” said Riker. “But I really need your help.”

  “I’m so flattered that you think I could help you.”

  Charles looked at Henry, who shook his head. “She would never give aid and comfort to the enemy, not even if Riker was bleeding to death.”

  Since Charles was standing in plain view of the detective, he could not return the courtesy of apprising Henry of Riker’s reactions. It was clear that Augusta had gone too far with her cliché when she picked up a sheet of paper and began to fan herself, casting her eyes up to heaven. Riker’s eyes flashed with understanding and a silent Gotcha! The detective was reappraising Augusta as an adversary now.

  Riker scanned the kitchen, eyes flying from one surface to the next. He breathed deeply, taking in the odors of cleaning solvents. And now Charles also looked around the room.

  Yesterday the kitchen had been relatively tidy, but today it was immaculate. The glass of the cupboard doors was invisible now, free of the yellow tobacco tinge from Augusta’s cheroots. Inside the cabinets, all the canned goods and boxes were perfectly aligned. The copper pots gleamed and lustered. Even the herb pots on the windowsill had been shined up, and now each one was equidistant from each other. Most unnerving, all the plant leaves gleamed as though they had been recently washed. This cleaning job was definitely beyond the norm, nearly deranged. She might as well have left her fingerprints on the sparkling, stain-free porcelain sink.

  So Riker had found Mallory.

  “You know, ma’am, I’m not surprised that you’re upset,” said Riker, very sure of himself now. “Sleepy little burg like this. Now back in New York, we take this kind of thing in stride. We got a thousand fugitives on the loose, and every one of them would cut your throat for spare change. Things move faster. It’s a deadly place to live.” He leaned toward her and smiled with the artful suggestion of a dare. “You gotta be quick.”

  Augusta returned Riker’s smile and inclined her head slightly to acknowledge that the rules had changed. They were onto a new level of gamesmanship. Knives and guns had not yet come into play – but they might.

  “You only think New York is dangerous, Detective Riker.” She removed her glasses. “We got five varieties of poisonous snakes, and deadly spiders. Our alligators are longer than two New Yorkers put together, and you can throw a saddle on the average mosquito.”

  “In New York, we got rats that could run on a racetrack at Belmont. We got a gridlock of automobiles from Harlem to the Battery, and two rivers full of dead fish and murdered taxpayers.”

  Augusta slapped one hand flat on the table. “We can outpollute you and outkill you. You seen the chemical plants along the river? We got those cancer factories on a signed legal contract with Satan and his elected minions. And it didn’t cost us one extra cent to have ‘em poison the wind and the water. Ain’t that a deal and a half? We don’t accept corruption here – we demand it. All you’ve got, Riker, is a little pissant island with a bad traffic problem. I know all about New York City.”

  “Miss Trebec, I think I’m in love.”

  “Then you must call me Augusta.” She smiled with exquisite insincerity, a second cousin to flirtation.

  Riker melted a bit. Admiration was in his eyes, but that did not prevent his closing shot. “You’re tough, Augusta, I’ll give you that. So when Mallory came to the door, you just chucked
a rock at her, and she ran off right?”

  Riker sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The room was so quiet, his burnt match made an audible ping against the glass ashtray, landing among the butt ends of her cheroots. “I need to talk to Mallory. It’s important. Tell her that.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the air and stared at the door to the next room, as if he could see Mallory standing on the other side.

  Augusta lightly drummed her fingers on the table. “I don’t think she’d come here. I like to believe my reputation for ruthless brutality precedes me. But if I do see her, I will certainly shoot her for you.”

  “She can reach me at the hotel in the square.”

  “Or the sheriff’s office,” said Augusta in the tone of an accusation.

  “Yeah, there too. But I wasn’t planning to mention this little conversation to the sheriff,” said Riker, his light sarcasm implying that he could do some damage if he wanted to.

  “I have no secrets from the sheriff,” said Augusta, clearly unimpressed. “I’ve had one or two occasions to swat his bottom and wipe his runny nose. So maybe I’ll tell him myself. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t stop to think. Would that create a problem for you – if Tom thought you were holding out on him?”

  Riker rose from the table and made a mock bow, graciously conceding the win to Augusta. Then he did something so out of character, Charles was startled. Riker leaned across the table, took up her hand and kissed it.

  Charles walked outside with him. “Looks like you’ve met your match.”

  “Yeah, she’s something.” Riker glanced back at the door between the staircases. He put one hand on Charles’s shoulder and led him farther away from the house. His tone was more confidential now. “I had a look around that chapel – your friend’s studio? Charles, would you say the little guy was fixated on Mallory and her mother? Maybe dangerously fixated?”

  “That’s absurd. He’s a very gentle man.” A man who kept a grisly list and cheerfully entered into a plot to torture residents of Dayborn, but still, a gentle soul. He shook off Riker’s hand. “I can’t see Henry killing – ”