I found a box of old Christmas lights near the door. I emptied it and ran back up. Like a resourceful Robinson Crusoe I poked holes in it to string a clothesline through. It was large enough for everything but the Kitty Hawk. For that I had to descend once more. I waded through mounds of dilapidated children's furniture and saw an old bassinet, a low table, metal desks and stools. There were also rusted farm implements that looked like medieval torture devices—the rack, the brank, the neck violin, the strapedo. Finally, beneath a pair of oversized shears, I found a cardboard box. The word "school" was printed on the flap. I hesitated, then pulled open the flaps. I saw a marbled notebook, PHYSICS printed in my own blocky hand. A rush of nostalgia came over me—for the ruddy Mr. Mora and his lab benches and formulas containing all the secrets of the universe. F=ma: Newton's second law of motion relating force, mass, and acceleration. t=2π√m/k: describing simple harmonic motion. E=mc2: unlocking the key to nuclear bombs.
I pushed the notebook aside. There was our high school yearbook, The Green Mountaineer, from 1988, Klara's senior year. I flipped through it, cracking the spine, until I reached the class photos in back. She looked younger than I remembered. But her gaze had that familiar half-mad intensity hidden behind a prim smile and horn-rimmed glasses. Below her photo someone had written, in a hasty boy's hand, Don't forget about us all at Harvard! —Mike B. Other students had written similar notes below their own photos:
You've been so great on The Falcon [this was the student newspaper]. I know in a few years I'm gonna read about all the great things you're doing. PLEASE keep in touch, OK? —Wanda Cuxhaven.
I flipped to the middle-school photos. These were much smaller. There was me in skinny miniature, frowning beneath a shaggy curtain of hair, my shirt collar hanging loose despite being buttoned and clasped with a tie. A few pages later came little Lizzy Meecham. I could hardly believe my eyes. Her perky smile and pigtails revealed no trace of the mammoth Elizabeth Silfer.
I was about to close the book when I spotted, on the inside cover, a drawing of a novel—I could tell it was a novel because it said "A Novel" across the middle—with "by Klara Crane" printed beneath and "In bookstores soon!" written in a loopy, exuberant hand (not my sister's) across the bottom. I didn't want to be reminded of Klara's so-called ambitions—the "family drama" she hoped to write, the one she was in a sense trying to write now. So I dropped the book in the cobwebbed crevice between two milk buckets. Then I paused. I thought about a different plot. Or maybe it was the same one? I emptied the remainder of the box and shunted it upstairs. My mind was furiously churning. I realized that Henri wasn't the only one who knew a thing or two about investigating.
The next day I managed to take the MG without anyone noticing. I returned to the library. A perky young librarian directed me to the annual reports of the Vermont Gardening Society: large green volumes full of pictures, tips from local gardeners, obscure horticultural awards. "Of course you can get all this information on-line," she informed me, pointing to a bank of shiny new computers. But I just smiled and said: "It's the historical material I want."
It went back several decades. I saw the name Henri Blanc beginning in the mid-1970s and continuing until just after publication of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Psychopath. Then there was nothing, a blank (Blanc?), until he reappeared only a few years ago, winning awards such as "Best Floribunda Spray" and "Best Miniature Rose-in-a-Bowl." And the garden owners? Marybeth Bliss, Peggy Sporleder, Phyllis Green, Yvonne Dutton. All female. I wrote them down. One of the names was vaguely familiar. I asked the librarian for help. She typed the names into the computer, and there it was: Peggy Sporleder died from an overdose of sleeping pills shortly after finishing one of the largest private rose gardens in the state.
I closed my eyes and imagined it: the pill bottle on the floor, a pale limp hand, glassy eyes, flowers swaying in the window. A scene right out of Father's early novel, Bloodless Sacrifice. "Can I find out more about this?" I asked.
Further searches turned up little else. Ms. Sporleder had been discovered by a house cleaner. There was a vague allusion to debt, to living beyond her means—just like the victim in Father's book.
Another kind of answer arrived that afternoon, in a thin Confidential envelope that I immediately took to my room and propped upon the windowsill. I sat on my bed and stared at it, almost through it with the outside light. Finally I tore it open. CarInfo was pleased to serve my needs. The Peugeot was registered to Henri Blanc.
I dropped the letter. For the longest time I didn't move. What if he really was just a gardener? Then another possibility occurred to me. One that managed to be both strangely reassuring and more disconcerting than anything. That he was both Henri and Keith. That he (Henri) was deliberately copying Father's psychopath. And that that's how I'd been creating him as Keith—by believing him to be.
That night I lay in bed, turning this idea over in my mind, thinking of all the possibilities it offered. I thought of similar artifices in The Wizard of Oz and The Hound of the Baskervilles—stories of seemingly supernatural beings that turned out to be fake, to serve very worldly (and in the case of the hound, nefarious) purposes. But what was Henri's purpose in this case? I imagined him trying to seduce Klara for her newfound wealth. It must have been irresistible to him, a story Father himself might have written—how a con man pretended to be one of Father's most nefarious villains in order to exploit his only daughter. But would Henri really take such a risk? He must know we'd eventually recognize him—we'd see every little sign. Unless this was part of the game . . . Yes, I could see him even now, raising his arms to show-off that tattoo—how he meant to frighten me so I wouldn't interfere with his plans. And Klara? Klara too. This was his genius: to attract her despite her fears. To tell her to her face that he'd fleece her dry or get me hanged for murder, and still have her swoon over his accent and his ponytail.
Keith by another name exactly.
Suddenly I heard a footfall on the stairs. I paused. I wondered if he was still in the house. I crept to the door and opened it just an inch. I peered into the hallway. The portraits hovered in the gloom. The rows of low dark doors were all quiet and shut up. All except Klara's. Once my eyes adjusted I could see that it was ajar. I imagined he'd just departed, making it the perfect time to confront her. She'd be tired and wouldn't expect it—her defenses would be weak. Perhaps I wouldn't even have to say anything—just look at her and know whether she was a villain or a fellow victim here.
I watched the stairwell until it seemed to change colors, acquiring hints of green and blue. Then came another footfall. Next the translucent outlines of her nightgown. Floating back up the stairs. She wasn't wearing a robe. How odd. I saw how loosely the nightgown was held together, barely covering her pale naked belly. There was also something else, but I didn't realize it at first—didn't see her hand thrust through the folds, those cage-like fingers clutching a trembling rose atop her pubis. This was a picture that crystallized in my mind only after she was gone, when I was left with nothing but her scent on the still night air, and a sense that while one sort of climax had just occurred, another was drawing fatefully near.
Morning brought some clarity. For once, it wasn't welcome.
Click.
I opened my eyes. Sunlight flared orange across the wall. I ran a hand through my disheveled hair. I heard it again: a click, followed by a muffled metallic rush. For a moment I was confused, then I shot up, recognizing the sound.
I stumbled to the window. The sedan. The heavy-set policeman. He stood in front of the garage with Klara. Henri lurked nearby, poking the soil with a spade. He seemed to be disinterested, minding his own business, only I knew better—I knew who was turning the screw. Are you sure I'm just acting the part of Keith? I put my hands over my ears, then grabbed the bayonet. I could force the issue. One mad rush, and I'd know for sure. Then I noticed Henri looking up at me, his eyes shimmering like on the very first day we'd met—full o
f curiosity, eagerness, even sympathy. "There was a Turkish word, Keith knew, for right before a climax, / That moment of surrender, triumph, life so sweetly axed."
No. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. It would only vindicate his and Klara's manufactured truth—about how crazy Milo was unhinged, how he'd knocked his head as an infant and was never right after that, how everyone knew he was off and should have used drugs to escape the dark place his mind was in. I'd become a cautionary tale, the subject of raised eyebrows and feelings of moral superiority, the dull rural folk hitching up their pants and thinking: at least I'm not suicidally violent like that Milo Crane. He attacked a cop with a bayonet! It might even cause renewed interest in Father's work, speculation that I was the model for his psychopaths. I pictured magazine articles with color photos of the house, book club guides, Cliffs Notes, an essay or even a long-awaited book by Klara herself, all slotting me neatly into Father's work.
No.
I backed away from the window. I'd had a close call, yet there was no time to relax. Klara and the man were already approaching the house. Henri was a few steps behind. After a moment's hesitation I reached beneath my bed. The lock-box. Where was it? I scrabbled around. I must have pushed it to the back when I'd hidden Father. Finally I found it. I fumbled with the combination, all 9s. My lucky number. Inside was my secret diary. And beneath it lay A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Psychopath—the first copy to come off the printing press, the one I'd kept all these years for myself.
I turned to the interrogation scene and began to read.
"Milo?"
I tucked the book beneath my pillow. "It's not locked."
My room was narrow, too narrow for them all to stand in. Klara entered first. The man remained in the doorway. I took this as a hopeful sign. "A detective is here," she said in a low, deliberate voice. "He's been asking questions. It seems there are a few loose ends from the accident. Can he talk to you, as well?"
She was a terrible liar. I could see the worry on her face, but also a flicker of hope. A hope to be rid of me? Was this what she really wanted? If it was, I knew I'd succumb after all, hurl myself against that detective and force him to destroy me, because I wouldn't be able to go on like that. "Does he have to?" I asked.
She paused, then saved me—saved us—by what she did next. She stepped forward and touched my shoulder. A gentle, reassuring touch that spoke volumes. She said: "I don't know, but I think it would be very helpful."
"Of course," I said. "I have nothing to hide."
The man had a craggy Italian face and a habit of wiping his forehead with his sleeve. It was obvious he was no match for me. Still I had to keep my guard up. He flipped through his notebook as if searching for something that puzzled him. I wanted to laugh—it was the oldest trick in the book. In all the books.
"You work on models, right? You ever work on model cars?"
He had all the subtlety of a blunderbuss. I kept my answers strictly to "yes," "no," or "I don't know." This was harder than I'd imagined. Confess, Henri's voice kept whispering, and you'll be free. Instead I asked about the gloves.
"We ran some tests," the officer said.
"Ah." They must not have found any brake fluid.
Then the detective said: "I've read all your father's books. Interesting stuff."
"Some people like them."
"You don't?"
I shrugged. "He wasn't the best writer."
He glanced around my room, his eye caught by my stacks of military histories. "I couldn't help noticing how often he thanks you in the acknowledgements."
"He needed my help."
"Yet he hardly thanks your sister."
"He needed her less, I suppose."
He chewed his lip. Something bothered him, yet he couldn't articulate it, and I wondered if I'd said too much—inadvertently started a chain of reasoning that would circle back to snare me.
"Thanks," he said, standing up. "We'll be in touch."
Then he was gone, in a huff and jangle of keys. I heard him downstairs talking with Klara—their whispered overbearing concern—and that's when I realized whom I didn't hear: Henri. He'd lurked in the hallway while the detective was with me, but by the end of the interview he was gone. I crept out into the hallway. I sensed him—I always could. A little farther. There. In Klara's room. He was staring out the window, hands behind his back, surveying the garden, and I began to study him: the curve of his back, his thin tanned neck. Searching for weaknesses, human vulnerabilities, some sign of what he really might be. What if I fetched my bayonet and rushed him? Would I find out then? I wonder now how everything would have turned out if I had. Yet part of me was convinced the bayonet would go straight through him or that he'd turn upon me a horrible decomposing face with gaping blanks for eyes—like the mask Keith once wore to literally frighten a woman to death.
So I did something I never should have done. I left him and retreated to the attic. I wanted time to plot. To plot my plot, I suppose. I sat at my desk and stared at the trireme. That's when I realized something profound. Ancient Greek rowers weren't chained to their benches. That was a Late Medieval practice. The model was anachronistic and false.
I swept it off the desk and brought my foot down upon the hull, over and over, smashing it to bits. I knew then that history itself was becoming corrupted, revealed to be nothing more than the lies we all share. How could I have been so blind?
Late afternoon. I finally ventured back down. I heard Klara's voice from the stairwell, bright and tinny and false. She was describing what a "miracle" the garden was, how "excited" she was to "share that vision" with others. Or some such claptrap, for it was difficult to distinguish precise words amid her general effluvium of nonsense. But underneath it all I could sense her sadness, worry, even panic.
About what was happening to me?
I wondered.
I peered into the living room. She was standing on the other side, against the patio doors, her face gripped in such obsequiously forced cheer that it looked paradoxically like an expression of tremendous grief. She wore a flowing blouse and looped earrings that dangled from plastic clips. In front of her were two men dressed in black. At first I thought they were more detectives. Then something gave me pause. They had their backs to me. I couldn't see them clearly. The nearest one had blotchy, pinkish skin and a close-cropped red beard, while the other had a right earlobe that gleamed with a diamond stud.
She touched the bearded man lightly on the shoulder. "Let's see it now, shall we?" She turned and swung open the doors. She marched out, hands raised like a waiter holding up two trays, the loose sleeves of her blouse falling nearly to her pale elbows.
I realized then what I hadn't seen for the past few days. I'd been too preoccupied, or willfully blind. But there it was, in all its splendor—a vastly improved garden filled with roses and sunflowers and lilies unfurling in great swaths of color, everything from red to yellow to white to green. There were new bushes and trees and a flower-lined path winding up to a small artificial rise, where a trellis remained under construction. I could barely make out a figurehead on a pedestal up there, a strange sight until I glanced at the banister and realized with horror that it was the head of the old Roman, removed from his post, banished to this distant decorative pavilion.
After a few moments Klara and the two men came into view again on the path. They were small, frail-looking figures—the men like mosquitoes in their black clothing and wide black eyes that must have been sunglasses, Klara like a little sparkling Christmas ornament, a miniature magus, with the way her blouse shimmered in the sun and her sleeves hung with wizardly slackness.
"Oh Milo, you feeling better?"
I turned. Marta was making her way toward Father's old set of Dickens with a feather duster. Her hobble was almost totally gone.
"Tell me," I said, ignoring her query. "Why have they been working so quickly? Why al
l the rush?"
"It's for the television show."
The television show. I thought of Keith filming his victims—documenting the horror and sending it to nature museums: "It's nature pure and simple, atoms rearranged, / And bodies feeding bodies. Not so strange!" Marta moved the feather duster like a pom-pom or Fourth of July sparkler. Then she noticed me watching her. She froze, her face a nervous rictus, a snapshot of unease.
Had she also looked like that years ago? When she'd passed along Klara's letters?
I drifted into the empty study and ran a finger across the dusty shelves, waiting for Klara to come. One last model battleship graced the uppermost shelf—the USS Arizona, a ship bombed in Pearl Harbor. 1,177 men perished inside its hull. It still lies at the bottom of the sea as a memorial to that infamous stealth attack. I stood on a rickety chair, snatched it down, and set it on the desk.
By the time I looked up she was in the doorway. She was glancing around, her eyes wide and dull. Something wasn't right, she could tell, but she didn't know exactly what. "Cleaning?" she said with a vanishing smile.
"Something like that."
"Where are your models?"
"I've moved them."
"Are you feeling any better?"
It was the same question Marta had asked, as if my wariness were like a stomachache or the flu. Only Klara's hands, held gnarled at her waist, betrayed her. "You know you can always talk to me, Milo," she went on, when I didn't answer.
I nodded. "I didn't kill Father," I said. "You've got it all wrong."
I don't know why I bothered. Her eyes didn't see me; her ears didn't hear. In her mind she'd made a marionette of me, and she beheld only that. Whenever my mouth moved, she started pulling the strings, and if I said something she didn't want to hear, she simply pulled a different way. "There's evidence," she said. "But I know how difficult things were for you. There were . . . mitigating circumstances, as they say."
The Garden of Blue Roses Page 18