Graven Images

by Jane Waterhouse

  Lucy Moon shook her head. “Let’s see what Dane says about the bodysuit.” Kyra peeled off the shorts, threw the kimono loosely around her shoulders, and went back to stringing her necklace. Blackmoor’s cockatoo sat on the lighting grid, watching the action as though it were a guard in the watchtower of a prison camp. Occasionally it chewed on its feet.

  Roberto trundled in, pushing a trolley with a big empty tub in the middle. “Once Dane’s ready,” he told me, “this will be filled with warm water.” On one side of the basin were neat piles of bandages in varying sizes. On the other gleamed an array of mat knives, razors, and small, mean-looking blades with rows of wicked teeth. I picked one up.

  Blackmoor suddenly came up behind me. “It’s called a claw,” he said. “The sharp edges produce a cross-hatching effect.”

  I tossed the tool back onto the tray. “What about these knives?”

  He studied me for a moment. “Would you like to see the really good stuff?” He grabbed my arm, propelling me up the staircase. Lucy Moon, her arms filled with small leather garments, stopped what she was doing to watch. Beth Rice paused in her instructions to the technician hanging lights. Kyra ceased stringing. Even the bird laid off its beaky pedicure. All around us, people were looking up and taking note.

  When we reached the upper gallery, Blackmoor released my arm. He continued walking, past the metal door of the torso graveyard, to another open workspace. “Here.” He snapped on a light. “You want deadly? Take a look at these—” He pointed to each item as he went by it. “Mallets. Hammers, of course. Bourchardes—they’re used for bruising and pulverizing.” He was talking too loud. “Power tools. Drills, saws. Rasps. Files. Rifflers. Gouges.”

  He lifted one. “This one they call a body grinder.”

  “Are they all necessary for the kind of sculpture you do?”

  “I’m known for the plaster-bandage technique,” Blackmoor responded. “But I’ve dabbled in metals. Even marble, once or twice.” He opened the doors of a large metal cabinet. “Oh, and just in case you should think I’m holding out on you, this is where we keep the joining and glueing materials. The heated tools. Polystyrene. Polyurethane. The foamed plastics.” Plastics. Materials to encase, protect, preserve. I remembered Torie Wood’s severed head in its clear, form-fitting sarcophagus.

  “Snoop around to your heart’s content,” he invited, coldly. “And if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  I had a couple for starters. Is this where you did it? Is this where you took apart that little girl? But instead I just said, “Don’t worry. I will.”

  Blackmoor prowled around the perimeter of the platform, studying Kyra from every conceivable angle. She appeared totally oblivious to him. He’d decided upon a leather brassiere and matching girdle, with net stockings and high heels; but the costume was for later, after the plaster cast was assembled. She would be sculpted in the nude.

  He posed her in front of the vanity, eyes looking vacantly into the mirror. The expression seemed suspiciously easy for Kyra.

  It was three forty-five when Blackmoor finally gave the go-ahead.

  The cameraman got into position. Roberto held a Nikon. The pictures, both video and still, would be used later, I’d been told, during the reassembling and casting.

  A young man entered from the kitchen with a bucket of steaming water, which he poured into the tub on the trolley. Blackmoor kneeled next to Kyra, whispering into her ear. She got up, stretched, did a few neck revolutions and shoulder shrugs. Then she slid out of her underwear and sauntered back to the vanity, as though she weren’t naked, on a stage, in front of a dozen people.

  Don Henley wailed over the speakers. I moved closer, taking care to stay out of camera range. Blackmoor suddenly appeared on the twin projection screens, magnified, multiplied, larger than life. I felt momentarily torn between his live and his video presence. Somehow, his every movement was hypnotic—the way he pushed up the sleeves of his sweater, his hand as it dipped into a large plastic jar.

  “Petroleum jelly,” he said aloud, turning to slather it over Kyra’s legs. “It coats the skin and makes it easier to remove the cast.” He rubbed it between her toes. Around her heels. Up her calves, to her thighs. Kyra blinked her eyes slowly, open-close-open, like a cat.

  Blackmoor submerged four bandages into the basin, then molded them around the girl’s feet. He moved swiftly, without hurrying, modeling with his fingers. Roberto sat on his heels, focusing the Nikon. Click-click-click. Blackmoor was swathing Kyra’s legs, his movements larger now, but just as sure, finding the line of muscle, kneading it with his palms, like an expert masseur. “I’ve set the knees at this angle to offset the tilt of the shoulder,” he said, speaking just loud enough so that his voice carried over the music.

  “Each line—how long it is, how wide it is, where it fits in relationship to the other parts—affects how the work will be interpreted. If I move one leg closer to the other, I alter the scenario.” He’d been working for about fifteen minutes, although it seemed like far less.

  The young man standing next to the trolley shifted his weight, and water sloshed from the basin. Elizabeth Rice whispered something to him.

  Blackmoor leaned back on the floor, looking up at his model’s long, encased legs. “You okay?” he asked. Kyra said yeah. They stayed that way for a few more minutes, Blackmoor seeming to be completely lost in the music. Then he drew up on his knees, touched the bandages in several places, and nodded.

  Richard Lewan handed over a mat knife the way a nurse hands a doctor a scalpel. Blackmoor took it and scooted around to the back of the girl. I moved with him, watching as he cut a seam in the plaster from heel to thigh on Kyra’s left leg. He did the same with the right. Sitting on his haunches, he worked his hand upward, prying the cast loose with his finger until it split all the way to the waist. If the girl minded all the groping, it was impossible to tell. She had the bored expression of someone who was mentally compiling a grocery list.

  Lewan took the knife and handed Blackmoor a red pencil. He made some quick arrow markings, showing where the seams needed to be realigned, then began removing the plaster cast in sections. When he was finished, Kyra stood up and stretched. Richard carted the plaster legs and lap away.

  Meanwhile, the guy manning the trolley had brought in more hot water, pouring it into the tub with a loud splash. Elizabeth motioned to Annie. They talked quietly together, with Annie nodding and taking notes.

  Kyra was in position again. Blackmoor spread more petroleum jelly over her shoulders, down her arms, to the tips of her fingers. He applied it to her back, working it into the archipelago of her spine. She did that cat blink again—open-close-open—as, very gently, from behind, he smoothed some under her breasts and over her perfect nipples. I found it increasingly hard to swallow.

  Holding out a long, moist strip of bandage, Blackmoor began to shape it down the long curve of the girl’s torso. Click-click-click-click-click. Roberto, with the Nikon, was out of control. Blackmoor’s hands raced over Kyra’s body, smoothing the wet plaster into sinewy lines. The music seemed to climb a few decibels, Don Henley raging.

  No one except Blackmoor appeared to be moving, even breathing. By now he’d stopped talking, as though he were channeling all his thoughts into his hands. When the plaster dried from neck to waist, he took the knife again, slicing the shell confidently, ruthlessly, splitting first the right arm, then the left. With one deft motion he cut down the model’s back, loosening the plaster cast, and removing the torso in halves. She flexed her muscles but stayed seated. Blackmoor whispered something, and the girl nodded. I saw the first glimpse of a connection between them. Kyra was getting into it.

  Click-click-click-click.

  The music changed from Henley’s vocal to a floating, freewheeling orchestration. Blackmoor’s lips were moving; I could see him talking steadily to Kyra, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. He took three strips, placing them across the bridge of Kyra’s nose, her mouth, her ey
es and forehead. His hands traced the bandages, over and over, until I could almost feel them harden from where I stood.

  He was sealing the girl’s head inside.

  The studio began a slow turn. Sweat sizzled to the surface of my skin. I wanted to cry out—Stop him! He’s covering her up… plastering over her air passages, her pores…Blackmoor placed thin strips of bandage between Kyra’s nostrils, shaping them around her nose, to the prominent cheekbones, and brow. I wanted his hands to hurry, but instead they dawdled, caressing the model’s skull, playing across her blank irises.

  The camerman had zoomed in. Overhead, on the projection screens, Kyra’s face stared stonily, like some ancient eyeless goddess. Inhale, I commanded myself. Exhale. Inhale. My body was going through all the right motions, but it seemed to be a dry run without oxygen.

  Click-click.

  I wanted to smash that camera. Only now I realized the sound had actually come from Blackmoor, snapping his fingers; and there was Richard again, with the mat knife.

  Good old Richard.

  The blade flashed in the light as it dove toward Kyra’s neck. Blackmoor sliced a deadly perfect seam up to each ear. She cat-blinked again, letting out a nervous little laugh. The hush in the room splintered like the plaster cast. I sank down on the edge of the platform, watching the sculptor lead his model to the tub to rinse off her face. Lucy Moon covered the girl’s bare shoulders with the kimono.

  Blackmoor was looking at me. “I hope you found it useful,” he said.

  “Yes,” I croaked.

  Behind us came the sound of angry voices. Elizabeth Rice was arguing with the trolley assistant. “There’s no excuse.” She pointed to the puddle on the floor. “It’s careless. It’s sloppy. It’s unprofessional.”

  The guy shrugged. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “You’re out of here, mister.” Rice’s voice had become strident. “That’s the big deal.”

  The young man looked around the room for support, but everyone had scattered. I turned to say something to Blackmoor, surprised to find Graham Hadary standing in his place. He inclined his pale head toward Beth Rice. “She’s very protective of Dane,” he explained in a confidential tone. “She’d do anything for him.”

  By the time I pulled in the drive it was almost ten thirty. The lights were off in the office. The house was also dark, except for the lantern that hung over the back entrance, which Cilda always kept burning.

  When I opened the kitchen door, I heard something fall—a large manila envelope with Garner written across the top in Jack’s cramped, irregular printing. The sight of my own name in familiar handwriting made my heart drop. I felt lonely, and inexplicably sad.

  I poured myself a glass of wine, dumping out the contents of the packet onto the table. More photographs of Torie Wood. Baby pictures. School pictures. A chubby little Torie in a pink tutu. An adolescent Torie sitting cross-legged with the girls’ soccer team. She was easy to pick out. Like Temple.

  The wineglass in my hand began to shake.

  I stuffed the pictures back into the envelope, turned off the kitchen light, and moved through the empty great room. The long wall of windows reflected the ocean. Tonight the waves were as black as pitch.

  Temple’s door was open a sliver. I tiptoed toward the bed, taken aback, as always, by her total perfection in sleep—the thick brush of her lashes, the sheen of her skin, the curve of her upper lip. I touched her cheek.

  She turned over. “Mom?” Her voice was thick and groggy. “Hi, Mommy…” then, as I hugged her, “You’re getting me all wet…”

  I hadn’t realized I was crying. “I just wanted to say goodnight,” I told her. She grunted sleepily, her eyelids already twitching with remembered dreams. Sweet ones, I hoped.

  So much sweeter than my own would be.

  EIGHT

  I listened as Annie Houghton diplomatically explained to the shopkeeper that, while Mr. Blackmoor had positively adored the glass bottle, he had gone with the enamel box instead. The box would have been her choice, too, the woman nodded with approval. Maybe the glass one would work next time. Anything she could do for Mr. Blackmoor. Such a brilliant man!—and, oh, she would be getting a poster-sized print of the finished piece, wouldn’t she?

  Annie smiled. “I’ll drop it off myself.” She joined me on the other side of the display counter. “This is the absolute best part of my job,” she whispered. “It’s like playing hooky.”

  I could relate. As we maneuvered past the browsers in the narrow-aisled shop, glimmering rows of goodies teased me from every direction. I had the urge to buy something frivolous.

  Wind chimes tinkled pleasantly as we pushed through the shop door. The balmy November weather had brought early holiday shoppers out in force. New Hope was packed. Couples strolled arm in arm brushing shoulders with young mothers and children. Packs of handsome gay men in jeans and leather jackets sauntered down Mechanic Street.

  “I have to go in here.” Houghton motioned toward another storefront.

  In the front window a paint-chipped mannequin had been decked out in a paisley mini and white ankle boots. A vivid image of my old friend Cathy, the upstairs maid, flashed through my mind: her tanned snub nose, her streaked blond hair (“With Sun-In they’ll think the sun did it!”), her lips slickered in something that smelled like strawberries and looked like pink Vaseline. The mournful wail of vintage Patsy Cline tugged me inside by my heartstrings.

  Annie was already at the counter, delivering her routine to a tall, thin girl in a print granny dress.

  “You like this?” I asked after she concluded her business. I held up a silver peace sign suspended on a black satin rope. “I mean, would you wear it?”

  “Sure,” Houghton replied. “I have one I wear all the time.”

  The salesgirl rang it up for me, putting it in a tiny, once-white box that was now as gray and battered as everything else in the shop. I felt exhilarated, as though I’d just done something adventurous.

  “I told Nicholas we’d be there about noon,” Annie said when we were out on the street again. “Would you like to get some coffee first?”

  We found a little café that overlooked the canal. “Order whatever you want,” I told her. “I’m paying.”

  Annie sighed. “I’ll just stick with coffee.”

  “Don’t you ever eat?”

  She drew up her small pointed nose and sharp chin. “It’s this thing with me. Yesterday I tried on a pair of size 0 jeans and they fit, but today I feel like, fat.” She carefully poured a drop of cream into her cup. “Anyway, we’re here to talk about Torie, not eat, right?” She smiled, eager to please.

  “You said you were friends.”

  “Oh, everybody loved Torie.” The quicksilver tongue darted out and back in. “Except maybe Beth. She really doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone but Dane.” She stirred the coffee with the one measly drop of cream in it.

  “Did Blackmoor treat her differently?”

  “Not really.” The girl thought for a moment. “He treats everybody mostly like shit.” Then she corrected herself. “Not that he’s a bastard, or anything. In fact he’s real polite. Icy polite, you know? Very detached.” She took a sip. “Very passive-aggressive. He lets everybody else do his dirty work.”

  “Like Elizabeth?”

  She nodded. “Elizabeth. Hadary. Lucy. Even Roberto, if you can believe it.” Then, although I hadn’t said anything, she added, “Beth is an easy target, but we get along okay. I feel sorry for her. Evidently she had a shitty childhood and a shitty marriage, so she probably can’t help being a little screwed up.”

  I wondered if people said that about me. “She’s heavy into therapy and these Twelve-Step programs,” Annie went on. “Anything that’s, you know, healthy. She jogs. She meditates. She fasts. She’s always at an exercise class, or the manicurist.”

  “Is she involved with anyone?”

  “I don’t think Beth’s had a date since her marriage broke up four years ag
o.” She sighed. “I mean there’s Dane, but that’s like in her dreams. I think that’s why she channels all her energies into this nurture-yourself crap. She’s almost got herself convinced that an herbal wrap is as good as getting laid. Scary.”

  “Tell me about the sculptures.”

  “You got five minutes? I’ll teach you all I know.”

  I looked down at my watch, and gave her the go. “What happens to the plaster casts after a sitting?”

  “Oh, actually, that’s pretty cool,” Annie said. “The parts are stored upstairs in the workshop until they’re ready to be reassembled. Then they dampen the seams, you know, where Dane splits them with the knife? And they rejoin the sections, piece by piece.

  “It can be a bitch, too, because the wet plaster gets all gunky and shapeless, and you really have to know what you’re doing to get it to align so it looks like it’s supposed to.” The girl paused. “They have to work really fast.”

  “When you say they, who exactly are you talking about?”

  Annie considered. “Usually Richard, or one of the apprentices.”

  “What about Blackmoor?”

  “It’s not really his thing. Unless it’s a figure that’s going to be painted and dressed. He could care less about the plaster-bandage ones once the initial sculpting is over.”

  “If they don’t interest him, why does he do them?”

  Houghton drew up all the sharp edges of her face into a mock-serious expression. “You want the party line? It’s an artistic statement.” She dropped her voice theatrically. “The unpainted-plaster technique captures the sterility and emptiness of modem life.” She giggled. “But if you want to know the truth, it’s a money issue. The lifelike figures take a couple of months to complete. They’re not cost-effective. Dane can knock out a plaster-bandage job in a couple of days, and there’s always a market.”

  She paused for a minute, checking out the faces around the café before continuing. “In my opinion, he’s just going through the motions—like he’s lost the passion for it, you know? Back in the studio in New York, he was supposed to be like totally fried. Ripped out of his mind pretty much all the time. Lucy Moon and Richard were doing most of the work. Signing his name to stuff. That’s sort of a requisite of the job. Even I could do it if I had to. It’s so bogus—people peeing in their pants over original Blackmoors?—pul-ease.”