by Lee Carroll
To be an orphan.
The words were in my head, but they were voiced in a sibilant hiss, which wasn’t my own.
It was the voice of the monster. Its red reflector-light eyes were leering at me, its serrated, rust-stained teeth grinning, mocking me for any hope I’d ever had that I was strong enough to make it on my own.
You’re a rare bird, my mother had always told me.
You’re a lame duck, Jaws quipped.
. . . unique . . .
. . . a freak . . .
. . . you’ve accomplished so much . . .
. . . you’re about to be out on the street, bankrupt, alone . . .
I turned away from the metal monster toward my worktable. I caught a glimpse of myself in the befogged windows, my long black hair wild and scraggly around a pale, gaunt face, my eyes hollow black sockets. A witch, a hag, the monster hissed. I picked up the soldering torch that I’d used last night and then put it down. No, it was too small. I needed the welding torch. I’d melt the damn thing down to a puddle—a heap of scrap metal and junk. That’s all it was—not art. I hadn’t wrested meaning from pain, there was no meaning, just chaos.
I put on my visor and gloves and adjusted the acetylene and oxygen levels in the welding torch. Then I climbed up onto the table, unhooked the sculpture from the wires that held it up, and dumped all six feet of the metal monster down onto the worktable. Its head bobbed on its chain-link neck, those sharp, serrated teeth brushing at my leather gloves, and it made an awful noise as it fell to the metal table. As I clambered down to the floor, part of my brain knew I shouldn’t be handling a welding torch in my current exhaustion and despair, but that part of my brain was curiously muffled, as if it had been swamped by the fog that pressed on the windowpanes and which, even now, was beginning to creep under the edges of the board Becky had nailed over the skylight. The part of my brain that wasn’t muffled wanted to destroy the leering metal monster. I clamped a pair of pliers on to the monster’s jaws and aimed the torch at the chain link at the base of its head. I’d break the damned thing’s neck first. Sparks flew up from the heating metal, cascading over its head, smoldering on its glass eyes and glowing bloodred on its needle-sharp teeth. Fog spewed out of its mouth like smoke. Just before I cut the chain link in two, something flashed in its eyes. It almost looked as if it were laughing.
The length of the chain that formed the monster’s neck, now cut from its head, unspooled to the floor.
Damn! I screamed as twenty pounds of stainless steel hit my workboot. I took a step back and caught my ankle on the chain. I fell backward, the torch following me down like a serpent slithering over the table. It wriggled on the floor, spitting flame. Kicking my foot free of the chain, I scuttled backward. On the table the monster’s head turned.
It can’t, I thought in that dim corner of my brain not paralyzed with fear, it’s not connected to the chain anymore. But that’s what it was doing. The head turned toward me, its eyes burning, and it opened wide its terrible jaws.
My back hit the oxygen and acetylene tanks. I pushed myself upright against them and turned—hating to turn my back on that thing—and turned off both tanks of gas.
Something hissed behind me. When I turned around, the extinguished torch was lying on the floor a few feet from the pile of chain. The Jaws of Life was hanging over the edge of the table. Flakes of black ash were falling through the air, which is what happened when the acetylene was too high.
Outside the fog pulsed against the window as if it would break the glass, but then it rolled back into the night, like a hurt animal slinking back to its lair.
Saint Lion
When I woke up the next morning, I felt hungover, as if I’d gone out and done a dozen tequila shots. When I stumbled out into my studio, I was greeted by the malevolent eye of Jaws staring up at me from my scorched worktable. What had possessed me?
What had possessed me?
Roman had said that the burglars were possessed by demons. Last night I had felt as if I’d been possessed by the demons of despair and self-loathing, and then Jaws had come to life and attacked me. Or at least it felt as though he’d come to life. It could have been my imagination, just as the figures on the box could have been a trick of the eye. Maybe something was wrong with my eyes . . . or my head. What if I had a brain tumor? Should I check myself into St. Vincent’s for a CAT scan? I had a feeling, though, that if I told a doctor about the things I had seen in the last few days, it might not be so easy to check myself out of the hospital.
I went downstairs, hoping to fight off the creeping feelings of despair with a pot of strong tea. I found Becky sitting at the table reading the Times. She was so immersed in whatever article she was reading that I was two inches from her before she noticed me. Then she jumped and wadded the paper into a ball, which she attempted to shove into her lap under the table.
“What?” I asked. “Did you get a bad review? Those bastards. Let me see.”
“No, it’s not a review. In fact we had a great night—there was this guy from a major record label who said he was going to bring a producer to our show at the Apollo tonight. So no, no bad review. Really.”
“That’s great.” I gave Becky a hard stare. I hadn’t seen her this twitchy since she took the LSAT, back when she was still going to fulfill her mother’s dreams of becoming a lawyer.
“Yeah . . . well, I just put some of those scones in the oven and made a pot of tea. You should have some tea, you look awful.”
“Thanks, Beck. I will.” I moved to open the oven door without an oven mitt and Becky jumped up to stop me from burning myself. The paper fell to the floor and I grabbed it to open it to the page she’d been reading. It was in the Metro section. The story was on the burglary of the James Gallery. “Second Theft in Decade at Village Gallery.”
“ ‘Second Theft,’ ” I read out loud. “As if we’re the only business in New York City to be burglarized more than once in a decade.”
“Those bastards,” Becky swore as she took the scones out of the oven. “Don’t let them get you down, kid. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
I read the rest of the story with a sinking heart. The reporter had dug up the ten-year-old fraud case against my father. Of course, the story made no claims that there was anything suspicious about this theft, but it was hard to avoid the implication. It ended with the line “Repeated calls to the gallery were not returned.”
“Like I have nothing better to do with my father in the hospital than return phone calls to the newspaper,” I said, guiltily glancing at the blinking light on the answering machine. I’d have to listen to messages sooner or later.
“Those bastards,” Becky repeated, pushing the plate of scones in my direction.
“Um,” I said, reaching for a scone, “I didn’t think we left this many scones last night. I didn’t think we left any.”
“Me, neither, but the bag was nearly full when I came down this morning.” She took a bite, closed her eyes, and let out a little moan.
“God, Becky, get a room.” Then I took a bite and closed my eyes and swooned a little, too. I felt instantly better. The article wasn’t such a big deal. If I could find John Dee, I might be able to redirect the police investigation. The only problem was I had no idea how to find John Dee.
I opened my eyes and reached for a wayward scone crumb that had fallen on the paper. My finger landed on a name. It was a name I had recently seen but for a second I couldn’t remember where.
Will Hughes: a hedge fund manager for hard times, the story read. Will Hughes reports that his fund, Black Swan Partners LP, is up +14% ytd despite the dramatic declines in all market indices this year.
“Will Hughes,” I said out loud. “That’s the guy whose name was on the paper in the box. Weird that his fund is called Black Swan . . .” I turned the page to where the story was continued. Will Hughes was pictured standing in the arched doorway of a Tudor-style building.
“Hm, he’s good-looking,” Be
cky said.
He was good-looking—wavy, light brown hair framing wide cheekbones, pale eyes framed with dark lashes, and a full, sensuous mouth—but I wasn’t looking at him. I was looking at the crest on the arch above his head. It was the same device as the one on my ring and the one on the box.
Becky was skeptical that I’d be able to just call up a billionaire hedge fund manager and get an appointment. “I mean, how are you even going to get his number?”
“From Chuck Chennery,” I told her.
I called Chuck and after listening to his polite expressions of concern for Roman’s health—God bless his upper-crust reserve, he never once let on there might be something fishy about the burglary although he certainly knew my father’s history—I asked if he could get me Will Hughes’s phone number.
“Will Hughes of Black Swan Partners?” Chuck asked. “May I ask what for?”
“I recognized the coat of arms he’s standing under in today’s Times photo,” I said truthfully. “I’ve got a crest like it and I thought he might buy a medallion.”
“Ha! Make him buy a round hundred, Garet. He can give them out as Christmas presents to the partners in his fund.”
He had me hold on while he asked his secretary to look up the number. I gave Becky a thumbs-up sign and waved at Jay as he stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and unshaven. I wrote down the number while Becky explained to Jay what was going on.
“So,” Becky said when I ended the call with Chuck. “Let’s brainstorm how you’re going to approach Will Hughes.” But I’d already dialed the number. I got voice mail.
“Mr. Hughes,” I said to the recorder, “my name is Garet James and I believe I have your ancestor’s signet ring.” Then I gave my cell phone number and hung up.
“That’s it?” Becky asked, squirming in her seat.
“Yup.” I handed her my cell phone. “I’m going to go shower. Let me know if he calls back.”
I took a long shower. I shampooed and rinsed my hair twice and applied a lavender cream rinse. The scent always reminded me of my mother. It was the thing she missed most about the village in France where she’d grown up—the fields of lavender. She grew pots of lavender in our tiny backyard garden, tied bunches in purple ribbons, and hung them from hooks in the kitchen to dry. Then she sewed the dried flowers into sachets that she put in the linen closets and clothing drawers. Just breathing in the scent made me feel clean and calm.
I got dressed in black slacks, a crisp white cotton shirt, and a green cashmere sweater—comfortable clothes that looked smart enough in case I had to talk to the police or reporters at the hospital. Before I went back downstairs I sat on my bed and read the whole article about Will Hughes.
Will Hughes reports that his fund, Black Swan Partners LP, is up +14% ytd despite the dramatic declines in all market indices this year. “My strategy is based on historical equity patterns,” Hughes told this reporter, “and I suspect I go back further and in more detail through stock market records than most managers do.” When asked to elaborate Hughes said only that he has a long family history in the stock market, and thus access to private financial records that are not available to the investing public. Hughes’s favorable results have resulted in an influx of capital this year; Hughes would not give specifics but he is reputed to manage in excess of five billion dollars and he said the additional funds are “significant.” “I’m being contacted by so many investors that I’m giving thought to starting a second fund, Green Hills Partners, which would have a socially conscious, environmental orientation that Black Swan lacks,” Hughes revealed. “Maybe some concern for animal protection issues too. That’s long been a dream of mine.” Asked about the frequent criticism of socially conscious investing for being less lucrative than the mainstream variety, Hughes responded wryly that he wouldn’t call investing in today’s market “lucrative.” “An investor needs a quality manager who learns from the past and studies the future, not one who fantasizes about it by taking foolish risks. That’s all that matters.”
I put the newspaper article down and reached for my pendant, which I’d left on my night table last night. Instead of finding the pendant, though, I picked up the silver seal that had come off the box. I’d left it on my night table two nights ago after I opened the silver box, along with the one sizable scrap of paper with Will Hughes’s name on it. I picked that up now and tried to read the lines above the signature and the seal, but the letters were so tiny I couldn’t make them out. It was as if the writer had wanted to encode his message.
I took the paper out into the studio, retrieved my jeweler’s loupe from my bag, and, laying the paper on the worktable in a pool of bright sunlight, looked through the magnifying glass. The words were larger, but they still didn’t make any sense. I picked up the fragment and the delicate paper turned transparent in the sunlight, the black writing hovering in the air like winged words. Still indecipherable, but . . . I turned the paper over and the enigmatic script resolved itself into English words. Holding the reversed paper up to the loupe, I read what appeared to be two lines of poetry.
Then swan in sudden flight startles, distracts,
And dominates the sky with wings of black.
The image was eerily like the one in my dreams, the black swan rising from the silver lake. For a moment I seemed to hear the sound of those wings again, but I shook my head and the sound vanished. Instead I heard the beating of my own heart. Could it be that this man, Will Hughes, who ran a hedge fund called Black Swan Partners and posed under a coat of arms identical to the seal on the box, was somehow connected to whoever wrote these lines? I shook my head again, this time because I had a strange and claustrophobic sense of things closing in on me. There were too many coincidences . . . too many connections. And yet . . . if Will Hughes was connected to the box, he might be able to help me find it again.
I went downstairs feeling curiously buoyed. The sun was shining, my father was going to be all right, and I had a lead that could possibly prove his innocence. When I saw the shocked looks on Jay’s and Becky’s faces, though, I was afraid that something awful had happened, but it wasn’t awful, just surprising.
“Will Hughes called ten minutes ago—,” Jay began, but Becky, writhing in her seat, cut in.
“He’s sending a car for you at three. He said to bring the ring.”
My good mood lasted through the walk to the hospital. The day was crisp and clear, mild for mid-December—all signs of last night’s malodorous rain and fog swept from the clean blue sky. The only remnants of last night’s freakish weather were the puddles of dirty water that the shopkeepers on Greenwich were sweeping out into the streets. I waved at the couple who ran Tea & Sympathy and said good morning just for the joy of hearing their British accents and getting called “love.” I gave a couple of dollars to a homeless woman who was sitting cross-legged on the curb conversing intently with a plume of steam rising from a manhole cover. She raised her nut-brown face to me, then lowered it, spit in her hand, and waved to me as I continued up Greenwich. I passed the hospital on Seventh and continued on Greenwich to the Lafayette French bakery, which made an apple strudel my father said reminded him of one his mother used to make.
On the way to the bakery I passed Tibet Kailash, a Tibetan clothing store where I often bought gifts. The window was full of bright silks that reminded me of the head-scarf Obie Smith had been wearing last night. The store didn’t usually open this early, but when he saw me peering through the window, the owner buzzed me in. The shop smelled deliciously of sandalwood and rose water. I picked out a multicolored silk scarf with silver and gold threads running through it and brought it up to the counter.
“I don’t think I’ve smelled this incense before,” I commented as the owner wrapped the scarf in purple paper and slipped it into a small orange bag (one of the reasons I loved buying gifts here was for the pretty packaging, which often came with a poem from the Dalai Lama).
“The street had a peculiar smell this morning,” he sai
d. “This takes it away. Here.” He added a few cones of incense to the bag. “Burn these if there’s another fog like that.”
“Sure, thanks. I hope we don’t have weather like that again, though. It gave me a migraine.”
He shook his head. “I think we’re in for a lot more like that—and worse.” He added three prayer cards to my package.
I left, trying to shake off the Tibetan man’s words, my mood beginning to dampen. The smells of the bakery revived me a little and I felt better when I entered my father’s room and found him sitting upright in bed, his color good, his eyes alert.
“Margaret,” he crooned when he saw me. “You’ll never guess who visited me last night!”
“Last night? I was here until the end of visiting hours.”
He waved away the strudel I offered him and grabbed my hand. “Santé Leone!”
“Santé Leone?” I repeated the name, sitting down on the edge of his bed.
“You remember him, don’t you? He was from Haiti and he did those enormous canvases full of tropical colors . . .”
“Yes, I remember him, Dad. It’s just—”
“It was wonderful to see him again! And the best thing of all”—he drew me toward him and whispered—“he’s painting again! His clothes were splattered with fresh paint in every color of the rainbow. He told me he had a dozen new paintings for me. You know what people would pay for a new Santé Leone?”
“Millions, Dad. I’m sure they’d pay millions.”
“You bet! See, I told you something would turn up. Our financial troubles are over.” He released my hand and fell back against his pillows.
“Okay, Dad,” I said, running my hand over his forehead. His brow was a little warm to the touch but not feverish. “That’s great. You just lie back for a moment. I’m going to go find your doctor.”
He closed his eyes and fell immediately to sleep, snoring softly.