Unreliable

by Lee Irby

  So now we have our first murder victim, and indeed the dead have died again. Robert E. Lee, who passed away in 1870, has been killed in battle. Having dodged cannonballs in real life, he couldn’t escape an insidious high explosive in his bronzed life. But don’t let your guard down for one second, because this is the major motif of my story and I’d be remiss to stop here, with one dead person dying again. There will be more.

  But this one! So epic in scale, grandiose in ambition! If the intent was to excise the heart of this city, no target would have had the same impact. Richmonders projected their best selves onto this statue, as Lee didn’t take secession lightly and agonized over the decision to fight against the nation he’d spent his career defending. He was no fire-eater eager for brother to slay brother, but a thoughtful, decent public servant, a hero from a sullied age, someone who acted upon deeply held principles. Now his iconic likeness lies smoldering on the ground. It feels like a political assassination.

  I can’t relate the overwhelming sadness that descends from the inky night onto the shocked crowd that gathers at the circle where the statue once reigned over the city. The first responders come in hordes: I count seven hook-and-ladders, six ambulances, and twelve police cruisers, all of which arrive in less than two minutes. The authorities quickly cordon off the scene, not that anyone has made any attempt to disturb the remains of the fallen hero. We stand muted by shock, too numb to move, to speak. The hundreds who come to catch a glimpse do so in complete silence that doesn’t last long. Behind us I can hear some angry voices, plotting revenge.

  “I say we knock down the Ashe monument,” someone growls. “They wanted his black ass, they got it, and now look what they did.”

  “Hell yes. Somebody should do something.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  Paula shoots me a glance, and I shrug in commiseration. The rabble has been roused, but the mob seldom picks the right target to rip apart. And that someone could be the Bastard Sons. It’s not hard to connect the flyer I found in the hamper to what just happened. This was a blow at the very heart and soul of old Richmond, and someone will pay dearly for it. If Graves had a hand in this…if he took an RPG…then Mead, and my mother, will also face possible legal ramifications, not to mention endure the calumny of an entire city. The scope of the ramifications staggers me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say, taking Paula by the arm. I have to get home and help the family confront the enormity of the potential problems this act of terror has created. I’ll tell them what I know and let them decide how to proceed from there. What do I know? That Graves had a suspicious-looking flyer that assailed Robert E. Lee? That he hated everything about Richmond? Not exactly a mountain of evidence. Through the years the Lee statue has been defaced multiple times, mostly with spray paint…but this is of a far greater magnitude.

  Helicopters flutter overhead, and the news trucks have descended. One has parked in front of the brick school, and a cherry picker lifts up to position a camera for a Hitchcockian view of the carnage from above.

  “Your poor mother!” Paula exclaims. “She’s spent months planning the big event and now all hell has broken loose. First the bomb threat, and now this. What’s next? The plague?”

  “This won’t end well,” I offer solemnly. “The city can’t handle something like this. You heard those people back there. This could get very ugly in a hurry.”

  “Nowadays there are cameras everywhere, and I bet they’ll get to the bottom of it sooner rather than later. Somebody saw something. Witnesses will come forward. They always do.”

  We’re at Broad Street again, which is utterly deserted, almost as if aliens had swooped in and scooped up all the street life. “Where are we headed?” she asks.

  “Oh, I should get home. I can give you a ride back to your hotel. I’m parked over there, a couple of blocks away.”

  “Yeah, the night has taken a turn for the worse.”

  But we’re not out of the woods yet…the dead will continue to die. I wish I could say that the mystery has been solved, but we’re not even close to the finish line.

  “I hope Mead isn’t mixed up in any of this,” she says gravely, catching me by surprise.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because of his business. The only thing that could have done the damage we saw to that statue was a rocket-propelled grenade, and I know Mead buys and sells weapons like that, without a license. And he buys and sells these kinds of weapons to and from seriously flawed people.”

  An image of the Russian forms in my mindscape, a hulking reddish figure with cold blood and insatiable appetites. Should Paula know this? She’s family, right? And blood is thicker than water. “I met one of those flawed people today,” I say, trying not to sound like a TV reporter breaking a big story. “A Russian.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “But wait. Right before I came downtown, when I took my mother home, we saw that the garage door was open. Some of the stuff was missing. Mead suspected it was the Russian who wasn’t happy with the pace of negotiations, and so he wants to move all of it into a storage facility first thing in the morning. I’m going to help him.”

  She cries in anguish as we near my Honda. “I knew this was going to come back to haunt him. He has to let Vietnam go. It won’t bring Dad back. He promised me this was the last shipment and after this he was going straight. He wants to make high-end brass beds. But he needs some capital to start it. He won’t borrow money. He’s got this hang-up about owing people money.”

  “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” I say as I unlock the car. “We don’t know what happened. I’m going to look on the bright side for once in my life.”

  She grins at me with a shake of the head. “I tried that once and I ended up married to a drunk. No, it’s safer to assume the worst and let life disappoint you from the opposite direction.”

  “I usually get disappointed from all directions. What hotel are you staying at?”

  The Radisson, on Franklin. She rattles off the address and we depart, careful to stay clear of Allen and Monument, an area that by now must resemble a war zone. It still feels surreal, yet all crime tears open the soul—crimes you commit or crimes you witness, both become landmarks that add permanency to life’s aimless wandering. I can see why someone would want to eradicate the Lee statue and at the same time I appreciate its enduring legacy to those who see in General Lee magnanimity and grace under pressure. “Will this city survive?” I ask rhetorically, feeling in my heart the terrible passion of both sides. This is the curse of all Southerners who think—the past is never past, as Faulkner tells us, but more than that—the past haunts the future in Dixie, because the original sin of slavery, the greatest crime of all, continues to shred the soul to smithereens.

  “You never know,” offers Paula, as she gazes out at the desultory streets, “it might just heal some old wounds and bring everyone closer together.”

  “Are you always a contrarian?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I like Paula. I’m not ashamed to admit that. She has some of Bev’s best qualities without the sanctimony that sometimes came with them. Most lawyers end up jaded and broken, having long since given up all hope of finding justice in this world—whereas Bev never quit thinking she could change things for the better, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Then all of a sudden I became the embodiment of all that was wrong with society, and she turned against me…isn’t that what happened?

  Paula continues talking as I steer through the Fan, whose restored brownstones never cease to enthrall. “Contrarians are misunderstood. People think we like to argue just to argue, but I see it differently. I like to keep things fresh. Ideas get stale, just like lettuce, crackers, and marriages.”

  “And bread.”

  “So you’re a quibbler?”

  “I’ve never been accused of that. I do like details and exactitude.” Just ask Lola! She’ll tell you all about my desire for precision and nuance
. Strange I haven’t heard from her in a while. Maybe she’s grown tired of the tiresome game we’ve been playing. Oh, if only that were true. Her silences are usually followed by eruptions that blister me.

  “It’s too bad our night got cut short,” Paula says as we reach the hotel. I pull into the drive that allows me to deposit her at the entrance to the lobby. “I think I’ll take your advice, though, and just wait until more facts emerge before I worry too much about Mead.”

  “You probably shouldn’t take advice from me.”

  She gives me a come-hither look, and I half expect her to invite me up to her room. And I’d probably go, if only because I enjoy failure. “I focus on the message, not the messenger. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. Why shouldn’t I listen to you? Are you hiding something, Eddie?”

  I don’t even bat an eye. “I’m hiding a lot of things. So many things.”

  She beams at me, radiating delight. “I can’t read you. I usually read everyone, but you’re a tough case. You’re unreliable. In an endearing way.”

  Unreliable? Me? I like to think of myself as precise as a Swiss watch. Paula is basically calling me a liar as a compliment, but I’m finished with lying, which itself is probably a lie. Still, I try the truth on for size, to see if it fits. “What if I’m being honest? Have you considered that?”

  She almost says something but stops herself. Maybe she was ready to accuse me of being a fraud, or maybe she was going to invite me up. We’ll never know.

  “Good night, Eddie. See you tomorrow.” We shake hands, and hers lingers in mine—or at least I perceive it to be so. How horrible of us, if we were to engage in some incestuous hanky-panky before the wedding, no strings attached—Lola employed that phrase too casually, without really pondering what a string is or how attachments can be formed without a string—and usually those bonds are the ones that are the hardest to sunder.

  “Bye!” I say, waving once my hand is free. Paula hops out and I’m alone again, alone with my thoughts, with my hands, with my life that rests in them. I don’t know why I want to drive my Honda straight into the James River. Is it because I’m fighting back the demonic urge to kill Paula? No, I don’t want to kill anyone. I know it looks bad, that unexplainable things keep happening to me, that a student inundates me with texts, that my old friend from high school has threatened me, that my stepfather or stepbrother or some combination of the two might have had a hand in destroying Richmond’s most cherished monument. All I can say in my own defense is that I’m trying my best. I really am.

  But look at how I’m trapped! I’m driving home to see if I can help out, wheeling down Cary Street, obeying the speed limit, when Lola texts me. It’s impossible for me to get away from her. I don’t even want to know what she has for me this time—or do I? What if she needs my help? This craigslist guy might have trapped her inside his crappy apartment and I have to go rescue her…which admittedly is one of my ultimate fantasies…Bev never needed me, whereas Lola ached for my approval, my feedback, my support. And now perhaps my derring-do. Unless she’s just screwing with me again.

  I pull over into the parking lot of a small public library, steeling myself for any number of possibilities. Lola is the ultimate wildcard, as unpredictable as the weather and just as severe under the right conditions…but also full of sunny days, languid and peaceful, like when we hiked to the gorge to lounge by the waterfall.

  Waterfall. Uncanny.

  Lola has texted me a photograph of the very same waterfall I was just thinking about, with this caption:

  I wish I was there right now. I hate this guy.

  My throat constricts as though I’d just gargled with drain cleaner. In two sentences Lola has managed to summon a welter of conflicting emotions, showing the promise of a young poet mastering the craft. There is fond remembrance and longing for the golden age of June, followed immediately by a jarring shift in perspective from the plaintive to the annoyed. Yet even in this declaration of hatred, gaps remain and the unexplained surges to the foreground…why does she hate him? What’s he doing to her?

  I reply: Are you ok?

  No poetry, but a simple plea from a man whose muse long ago fled him. Here in miniature is the fundamental dynamic of our relationship: I struggle to ascertain basic facts, while she floats in and out of comprehension, forever eluding me, jumping from bed to bed, but always ending up in mine, where we read books by candlelight like a middle-aged couple…yet she claims to adore just those moments, knowing my hands will never stray and I’ll remain faithful. If I can find her, I’ll smuggle her into my basement abode so that we can fall again into the comfort of the quotidian, books perched on chests, she smelling of jasmine bath wash, skin luminous, eyes equally shiny, and all mine…

  She responds: He’s a moron.

  So leave.

  I don’t want to be rude. He’ll think I’m a racist.

  Where are you?

  I wait two minutes to hear back from her, agonizing minutes, each second another pinprick until my arms and legs have turned numb. But I also have to remind myself that Lola still has refused to show herself to me in Richmond, and until she actually appears before me in person, I have to remain skeptical. At the same time, she could be in grave danger.

  Three more times within thirty seconds I implore her: Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.

  Now what? I’m sitting in the parking lot of a library that used to be one of my favorites in the city. The Belmont branch. I’d retreat here during times of academic stress in high school and find a table in the back where I could work in seclusion. Before that, during the worst of the divorce proceedings, my grandmother would drive me here so I could check out books and then we’d get little bowls of ice cream at Stanley Stegmeyer’s…she was the one who encouraged me to follow my heart and become a writer. And I did, for many years, try to make her proud. But she moved on to the Underworld, and one day I’ll join her there. Maybe even tonight.

  I try Lola one last time: Are you ok??????

  Why does she derive pleasure from torturing me? Especially now, with all that’s happened, all that I must take care of, my family in extremis, depending on me to help out, Lola decides to pile on. I really can’t deal with her childish antics. If she’s out to exact revenge because I want to end it, I’d say she’s succeeded tenfold. My brain has become infested with the spiders she’s released. A new resolution: I’m going to ignore her. I’m not going to play along anymore. If she’s in trouble and needs my help, then she should simply ask me. If she does, of course I’ll drop everything and go to her. But she must ask directly, or otherwise I’m taking the vow of silence, which Lola hates more than anything in the world. One Saturday afternoon we accidentally-on-purpose met up at a farmers’ market—our trysts were straight out of Madame Bovary—and she made the mistake of remarking on how cute she thought the harpist was (this market usually featured a band of co-op yokels). For some reason her quip irritated me. Now mull over that! By then she’d fornicated with around twelve different guys for my viewing pleasure, but this one time I got jealous because indeed the harpist was handsome and probably smart and well-adjusted and all that I wasn’t. I stopped speaking to Lola and it drove her nuts. She almost hit me in the mouth with an organic eggplant. One thing Lola will never tolerate is being ignored.

  Finally composed enough to drive, I head down Main Street. Once I get home, I’ll need to tell my mother everything I know about Graves. What she and Mead decide to do with my debriefing will be up to them. At this point they need to know the facts so that they can respond appropriately. But given that there was a bomb threat against Tredegar earlier today, when Graves was at the wedding rehearsal, there’s a chance that Graves has nothing to do with the Lee statue getting blown up. At least, no direct involvement.

  At the intersection with Thompson, my phone rings. Ha, my first chance to ignore Lola! Let’s see how well she takes to my shunning her. Except it’s my mother calling.

  “Eddie
?” She sounds shaken, distraught, unsteady.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I saw it like two seconds after it happened. It was so sad and just overwhelming on a spiritual level.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The big statue of Robert E. Lee on Monument Avenue? Somebody blew it up tonight. It’s got to be all over the news.”

  “Oh my gosh. No, I hadn’t heard. Eddie?”

  Her voice is growing fainter, like she’s about to lapse into a coma. “I’m here, Mom.”

  “The police stopped by looking for you.”

  19

  I’m speeding south on Powhite, getting ready to cross over the river. All looks black below me, a vast abyss that has no bottom. “The police? What are you talking about? What police?”

  “Two men came here for you.”

  “Did they say why?”

  “No. They just asked if you were here and when we last saw you. Eddie, are you in trouble?”

  “No! Why would I be in trouble? I’m sure it’s something to do with Leigh Rose Wardell and her crazy brother. They’ve been going at it hammer-and-tongs and somehow I’m mixed up in it. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that! I’m sure it’ll all get straightened out.”

  “You’re not in trouble?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I have the detective’s number. He wants you to contact him immediately.”

  She gives me the name of this public servant, Burt Voss, who sounds like he could chew up a diesel engine, and the number I’m to call, which I try to scrawl down on an old bank deposit slip, but it’s hard to write and drive at the same time. Somehow the Honda has gotten up to eighty-five miles an hour and it starts shaking from the excessive speed. My foot, however, continues to press on the accelerator against my wishes. How did I lose control of my appendages? My feet, my hands, my dong—none do as instructed anymore.

  “I’ll call him,” I assure her. “First chance I get.”

  “I’m worried, Eddie. Why do the police want to talk to you?”