Graven Images

by Jane Waterhouse

  I stood there, frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. As a dancer, Geoff seemed more earnest than skilled. I started bouncing, the way everyone else was. Once I had that down, I copied the chugging motion they were making with their hands, a gesture that looked like what kids did when they pretended to be locomotives. Suddenly, it no longer mattered whether I was doing it right or not. I was having fun.

  I tossed my head back and laughed out loud. Geoff grabbed me around the waist, spinning me so clumsily, I laughed harder. Everything—the night, the people, the crazy dance—was a neon blur. Tall garden torches hung on the darkness like diamond drop earrings. The bass rhythm tickled the bottom of my feet. When Geoff finally released me, it took a minute to focus. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Blackmoor. I stiffened, self-conscious again.

  The music ended. Geoffrey bowed low from the waist and wandered off to find another drink. I drifted in the direction where I’d glimpsed Blackmoor, but there was no sign of him now. The crush of people had started to make me feel almost seasick. I threaded through them, past them, toward the very edge of the garden.

  Even though the air was cool, I found I’d perspired right through the T-shirt. My partially straightened hair had already started to kink, the sausage curls unraveling. I leaned up against one of Pete’s massive planters and closed my eyes. On the patio, Dudley was making an announcement about the fireworks—“ten minutes…so if…a place…near the tennis courts”—sounding as if he were speaking into a defective microphone. I considered going over to claim a seat.

  “Don’t you like fireworks?”

  “They’re okay,” I replied, my heart quickening.

  “Noise, flash, sputter,” Blackmoor said derisively. “Like life.” He leaned up against the planter, next to me. I could smell the liquor on his breath. He offered me his glass, and I put it up to my lips without even checking first, drinking what was left out of real thirst.

  The band was on a break. Over the stereo speakers, Dulcie Mariah’s gravelly voice unsettled the night. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” He took my hand, quite naturally, leading me back toward the house. As we were going in, Cilda was coming out with a platter of food. I pressed myself against Blackmoor, trying to hide. His shirt smelled of a steam iron and talc.

  I had no idea where he was taking me. It didn’t matter, I thought, as long as I could talk to him alone. He lurched up the center staircase, pausing at the top for a split second as though he were momentarily disoriented.

  “And where does the mysterious Garnish Quinn live?” he asked huskily, swaying a little on his feet.

  “There,” I pointed to the door, to the flowery enameled plaque with my name on it. He turned the knob. I walked in first, remembering too late the altar I had made on my bedstand: the shell he’d given me that first day…the tiny wax sculpture…the picture of him, with my mother…

  Blackmoor passed by it without noticing. “This might be where the mysterious Garnish sleeps,” he said, “but no way is this where she lives.”

  “One of Dudley’s girlfriends decorated it,” I told him.

  “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” He laughed; I did too.

  I sat on the bed. “I’ve never felt like it was mine. Any of it.” The half-glass of wine had hit me full in the face, making my mouth move before my brain could stop it. “I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere,” I heard myself say, “until I saw that picture of my mother and you.”

  Blackmoor looked at me, his head cocked almost like the damn bird’s. “Sometimes I think you know what you’re saying,” he said softly, “and sometimes I think you haven’t a clue.”

  I stared squarely into his eyes. “I have a clue,” I said. He started toward me. I thought: In one more breath, I’ll feel his arms around me, fatherly, comforting, strong.

  And yet, when it happened, it wasn’t that way at all.

  Instead of moving his head to the side, he approached me, full on. His skin was hot, much drier than my own, his breath sweet and grapey. Suddenly, he was on me, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, his hips thrust forward, with the obvious difference which made a direct match impossible.

  I struggled. His head came up once, like a drowning man out of the water, gasping for air before going down again. “Stop,” I panted. “Wha—what are you doing?”

  When he came up this time, the light was totally out of his eyes. “What do you think I’m doing?” he whispered hoarsely. “You wanted this. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  I pulled out from under him, squiggling back on my hindquarters until I reached the headboard. “No,” I cried, shielding myself with a pillow. “I wanted a father!” I picked up the photograph on the bedstand and hurled it at him. “I wanted you to be my father!”

  Blackmoor said nothing for a time. Then he dropped off the side of the bed, onto his knees, laughing. Really laughing. “Oh, that’s great,” he sputtered, “that’s…price—! A fath—!…S’great!” His words came out in ragged, drunken hiccups. I waited, watching him, still trembling.

  From outside I heard tat-tat-tat-tat-tat—ohhhh!…tat-tat-tat-tat-tat—ohhhh! The fireworks had begun. After a while Blackmoor stood up and brushed himself off. He leaned the photograph against the lamp on the bedstand next to the shell and the shrunken wax head.

  “Whether you know it or not, little girl,” he said, his head so close his eyelashes brushed my cheek, “you’re not looking for a daddy.”

  I started to say something. Didn’t. He took my face in his hands, inspecting it under the light for flaws, the way he had the first time we’d met. “When you find out what you are looking for,” he said, “give me a call.” Then, very, very slowly, he leaned down and kissed me on the lips.

  And the room exploded.

  Dudley charged toward the bed, propelling Blackmoor backward by the collar of his shirt. Dane didn’t have time to right himself before Dudley’s fist hauled back and let go with a crack square to the jaw. He crashed into the wall, knocking botanical prints off moiré ribbons and onto the floor.

  “I want you out of this house,” Dudley bellowed. “Now.”

  Blackmoor rubbed the side of his face. His eyes had regained their old taunting light. He walked calmly to the door, where Cilda was on guard.

  “Just in case there should be any question,” he said before leaving, “it wasn’t her fault.” After he’d gone, we stood in stunned silence, the three of us, me shaking uncontrollably. I tried to stand. The scarf had been pulled loose from my makeshift dress, the T-shirt edged off my shoulder. Dudley took a step toward me.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I cried, holding my arms out to him.

  “You’re a slut, just like your mother,” he said. The door slammed behind him.

  I sank to the floor, feeling Cilda’s strong arms around me. “Ga’ner, Ga’ner. Ga’ner Quinn.” She rocked, singing my name over and over into my ears.

  And I thought, as my heart was breaking, I’ll get them back. Both of them. Someday I’ll make them pay.

  III — THE HEAD

  THE HEAD WAS SEVERED AT THE NECK AND DIPPED IN AN ACRYLIC FIXATIVE, PRESUMABLY TO PREVENT MOISTURE AND ODOR FROM SEEPING OUT OF THE PLASTER CASING. IRONICALLY, THE LACQUERED SURFACE ALSO ACTED AS A PRESERVATIVE. THE YOUNG WOMAN HAS BEEN IDENTIFIED AS VICTORIA (TORIE) LYNNE WOOD, AGE 16. A SPOKESMAN FOR DANE BLACKMOOR CONFIRMED THAT WOOD HAD WORKED AS AN ASSISTANT IN HIS BUCKS COUNTY STUDIO, MODELING FOR SEVERAL OF THE SCULPTOR’S WORKS BEFORE HER DISAPPEARANCE IN MARCH OF LAST YEAR.

  USA TODAY

  (NOVEMBER 25, 1994)

  ALTHOUGH DANE BLACKMOOR PROFESSED ASTONISHMENT AT THE RECENT TURN OF EVENTS, THIS IS HARDLY THE FIRST TIME THAT VIOLENCE AND SCANDAL HAVE TOUCHED HIS OTHERWISE CHARMED LIFE. IN 1977 A YOUNG WOMAN SHOT HERSELF AT A PARTY GIVEN BY THE SCULPTOR, IN FULL VIEW OF THE OTHER GUESTS. THEN, IN 1984, BLACKMOOR’S LONGTIME FRIEND, GALLERY OWNER CONRAD VESTRI, WAS CONVICTED IN THE S&M MURDERS OF TWO YOUNG MEN.

  NEW YORK MAGAZINE

  (NOVE
MBER 28, 1994)

  ONE

  If the curators of the Metropolitan Museum of Art were embarrassed about hosting a gala opening for a potential murderer, you couldn’t tell from the huge banner that fairly screamed Blackmoor and the title of the show, “PAWNS.” A fine drizzle had begun, curling my hair until it swelled off my shoulders like some exotic fake fur.

  The building was bathed in light. Spherical cones caught the raindrops within patterned arcs, silvering the pavement as if just for the occasion. At the main entrance, a bottleneck of glitterati trailed umbrellas like open parachutes. The rich and cultured apparently had never heard of the concept single file.

  At the door, a uniformed guard asked to see my invitation. “I didn’t bring it,” I said. “My name is Garner Quinn—”

  A small, very pale man dressed in white suddenly appeared. “It’s quite all right, Derwin,” he told the guard, adding, “Such a night! I do hope you’ll enjoy the show, Ms. Quinn.” He handed me a catalogue imprinted with the same logo I’d seen on the flag outside. I was about to ask him if he knew where Blackmoor was, but he slipped back into the crowd.

  My eyes focused on the dazzling crush. Then they blurred and readjusted, like the lens of a camera. Oh, no, I thought. Tell me I’m hallucinating.

  Everyone was in costume.

  Fantastic ensembles. Black. White. Black and white. Women floated by wearing low-cut Josephine gowns, and wide, wasp-waist Elizabethan skirts. The men sported capes, ebony breast plates, cloaks, cowls. In the grand hall I passed a stunning girl in a short belted tunic and tights, whose face I recognized from the covers of magazines. Some carried the black-and-white theme to extremes: powdered wigs and powdered faces; lacquered hair; onyx lips and nails. I did a quick inventory—miters, crowns, scepters, swords, dark, light, checkerboard; rooks, queens, kings, knights, bishops.

  Dane Blackmoor had staged his own flesh-and-blood chess game for the gala opening of “PAWNS.” It occurred to me that the suggested dress for the evening must have been printed on the invitation, but to have read that far would’ve been akin to admitting I was going. My rain-splotched red dress stood out like a clot of blood. So much for blending in with the crowd.

  A waiter clad in a velvet doublet and tights tipped a tray of fluted glasses toward me. I drained the champagne in one gulp. The properly attired invitees were making a show of not staring in my direction. I summoned up my reserve of brass and walked into the exhibit.

  A woman in a skin-tight yellow polka-dot halter dress had stopped to pose for a picture, just inside the entrance archway. My first thought was, Thank God, another fashion faux pas. Then I did a doubletake. The blond bombshell and the eager photographer remained perfectly immobile—fiberglass figures frozen in some picture shoot from hell; his finger on the button, her lips drawn up in a perpetually teasing kissy-pout.

  The plaque read: “Starlet, Dane Blackmoor, 1979.”

  I stood as close as I could. Blackmoor had shaded the area around the eyes in order to make the plastic inserts appear more true-to-life. The starlet’s nails were painted with crimson polish, and there was a growth of wiry hair on the photographer’s wrists, above his shirt cuff. Nothing—not even the smallest of details—seemed to have escaped him.

  The exhibit hall showcased some of the sculptor’s most famous works. In the center of the room was a graffitied subway car. Its doors gaped open, revealing the passengers inside—a still-life of dead eyes and beaten, blank expressions. I glanced down at the plaque. This was The D Train, the work that had first brought Blackmoor to the public’s attention.

  Invited guests glided by, commenting in a low buzz, like large, exotic bugs in some rare species of insects. I had the feeling that if I stood still for any length of time, one of them would pause to coolly appraise the lifelike texture of my hair; so I kept moving, trying to search out Blackmoor in the crowd. I wondered how he’d be dressed. Dark knight? A king, caped in ermine? Or hooded bishop of black magic art?

  I paused, drawn to a sculpture called Crack. A young black couple was seated at a Formica kitchen table, about to light up their pipes. The table was the kind Donna Reed had set to serve dinner to her freshly scrubbed family.

  The small man in the white suit suddenly appeared at my elbow. “Have you seen Dane yet?” he asked.

  “No. Actually, I’m not sure I’d recognize him, with all these costumes.”

  “Oh, you’ll recognize him,” he said. His skin shimmered with a light coating of powder. He wore mascara, too, I saw now. “You might try looking near The Hospice.” He turned away from me to greet a large, pompadoured Marie Antoinette, burying his face in her bosom with a delighted whoop.

  The Hospice was a frozen tableau of wasted young men sitting in the common room of a hospital, staring at a television. A video played continuously on the screen, President Clinton droning on and on about what he was doing in the area of AIDS research. This work seemed to be commanding a lot of attention, but I found no one who even vaguely resembled Dane Blackmoor.

  Single-figure sculptures flanked the walls of the grand hall. Each piece had been placed in front of a mirror, creating an eerie effect—a roomful of silent, hollow people. Most of the figures were recognizable types. A Playboy bunny. A benched football player. A corporate executive hefting a briefcase. A drum majorette. A black Jehovah’s Witness clutching a handful of pamphlets.

  From the artist’s perspective, pawns, one and all.

  I started to feel dizzy. The line of plaster casts, refracted, then multiplied by the mirrors, crowded me, closing in on all sides. I’ve always been slightly claustrophobic; but usually the attacks came in closed, small spaces with a lot of people—not lofty, high places with no living person in sight.

  I spotted a bench at the end of the hall. Just make it that far, I told myself, and you’ll be all right.

  Then, quite suddenly, I saw him, at the end of the row of figures, standing there, staring, in a charcoal Armani suit, a white shirt, a claret-colored tie. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.” My voice sounded unsteady.

  His came from behind. “Yes.”

  I spun around, too quick. “I—” That was all I managed, before the faint.

  I came to, fighting. He was holding a glass of something to my lips. “What happened?”

  “Your legs gave out.” Blackmoor smiled with those ready-to-bite teeth. “The excitement of seeing me again, I suppose.”

  I struggled to sit up. My surroundings were gradually coming into focus. A cushiony seat. Low overhead. Plush, padded interior. “Where are we?”

  “A 1933 Silver Shadow Rolls-Royce.” Blackmoor tapped on the glass panel. “This is Jeeves,” he said, indicating the plaster-cast chauffeur behind the wheel, “and that is Mrs. Whittaker.”

  I felt the stiff, cool hardness before I saw her—a withered old dowager sitting on the seat right beside me, one gnarled hand clasped over the silver top of her cane. I almost jumped out of my skin. “Tell Jeeves I’d like to go home now.” Blackmoor laughed. “I mean it.”

  He leveled a deadly gaze at me. “I suppose you would rather we’d met in another setting. Like perhaps prison. Of course, they haven’t accused me of anything yet. But be patient, Garnish. I’m sure they will.” He handed me the glass again. “Mineral water,” he said, noting my hesitation. “Pure as the driven snow.”

  I drank it down, thirstily. He said, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  That confused me; then I realized he was offering sympathy so long after the fact. I couldn’t even say for sure what year my mother died, only that Dudley had shipped me off to boarding school by then. I might not have known at all, if it weren’t for Cilda, showing up at my dormitory, in her plain wool coat and hat. “Ga’ner,” she said, “you got to say goodbye to your mama now.”

  The service was held in Manhattan. I remember being shocked at the number of people trailing up to toss roses on the glossy white casket, some of them openly weeping—the whole world, it seemed, minus my father. The whole w
orld, and I wouldn’t have even known, except for Cilda.

  Later I found out Dudley had paid for the funeral. It seemed too little, too late.

  I handed Blackmoor the empty glass. “Why did you invite me here?” I asked.

  “I thought that was obvious.” He needled me with those eyes. “No need to concoct a complicated plot, unless it’s out of habit.” I reached for the door handle. He put his hand over mine. “Don’t go. Please.”

  I slid out from his grasp, feeling the sculpted old woman’s cane in the small of my back. From this position, I had an unobstructed view of Blackmoor’s face. Something I saw there made me instantly relax—the sarcastic curve of his lips had tightened into a line of fear. “Where’s your costume?” I asked him.

  “I’m not a pawn,” he said. “Where’s yours?”

  I felt his eyes travel over me. More than anything I wanted to pull my short red skirt down over my knees. I sat on my hands. “This is business,” I told him. “I don’t dress up on the job.”

  “Do you drink?” Blackmoor produced a bottle and two stem glasses from a paneled box on the door. “I thought we might switch to champagne,” he said, “unless you feel another swoon coming on.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” I said.

  He started to pour, the pale blond liquid hissing into the glass. “Things are heating up. There’s talk of bringing in some sort of sophisticated equipment to X-ray my work. My lawyer’s fighting it, of course, but…” He shrugged, offering me the champagne.

  “And if they do X-ray the other sculptures? What do you think they’ll find?”

  Blackmoor smiled sadly. “One can only imagine.”

  I took a sip of the drink, feeling cool and hotheaded all at the same time. “Where do I come in?”

  The question seemed to fluster him. “I just thought,” he said, clearly at a loss, “well, someone’s bound to write about it…”