An Exaltation of Larks

by Suanne Laqueur

  The first rains hit the parched ground and rebounded, beading up in dirty droplets. Like him, the earth didn’t know what to make of this sudden moisture. Then his story started to sink into the surface, saturating him. A swampy mess at first. No plot, no arc, no thread. For a month, he simply threw handfuls of mud and gunk at the screen. He began to find rocks, then bones. And finally, he hit the vein of gold at the intersection of challenge and passion. He heaved a novella called Gloria in the Highest to the surface. A dark tale of a dark woman, raised by a gangster father in the 1920s. She took his life, his name and his empire, becoming queen of Manhattan’s underbelly.

  “Darling, it’s so twisted and despairing,” Gloria said, reading the first proofs. “I’m afraid I love it.”

  “It’s not you,” he said. “Only your name. And the play on your name. The twisted despair is all me.”

  She gave him a long, thoughtful look over her glasses. “It’s me, too,” she said. “It’s astonishing how well you know me.”

  Gloria was a New York Times bestseller, and long-listed for a New York City Book Award, though it didn’t advance. Jav kept working, writing and escorting. He started relationships with women that ended quickly. He looked at men sometimes, but didn’t dare touch. The want wasn’t worth the loss.

  This year, his publisher re-issued both Client Privilege—his short story collection—and Gloria in the Highest with the new covers now framed on Gloria’s wall.

  “So tell me what’s next,” she said.

  “Well,” he said. “I did have a little idea. Have you heard of Post Secret?”

  Her eyebrows drew together as she twisted her earring. “It’s a blog, isn’t it? People submit anonymous postcards with their secrets?”

  “Yes,” Jav said, drawing a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “I saw this one a few weeks ago. And I can’t get it out of my mind.”

  He handed the printout to her. The postcard showed a pen and ink sketch of the tops of the Twin Towers, wreathed in billowing smoke. Along the top was written, Everyone who knew me before 9/11 believes I’m dead.

  “Goodness,” she said. “Here’s a story.”

  “Right? I can’t stop thinking about it. How one tragic day was the end for thousands, but perhaps for someone, it was the beginning.”

  “An out.”

  “A chance for a new life.”

  She handed the picture back to him. “You should go with it.”

  “I’m going to try.” He glanced discreetly at his watch. When he looked back to Gloria her face was wreathed in an expression he couldn’t fathom.

  “Look at you,” she said. “All grown up.”

  He laughed. “Not quite.”

  “Forty-three,” she said. “Still gorgeous, fit, built and in-demand. You’ve done well. You’re lonely as fuck, but you’ve done well.”

  Jav stood up and leaned down to kiss her. “Can’t have everything.”

  Her hand caressed his cheek. “Call me if you need me.”

  “I always need you.”

  He took the subway back to Manhattan. A woman got on at Marble Hill and sat across from him, crossing her arms over her purse and exhaling a ragged sigh. Jav lowered his eyes and looked at her through his lashes. She was dressed neatly, he thought, but her hair hung limp and unwashed and her complexion was slightly grey, as if she’d been eating ash. Her eyes stared at nothing, with an intense purpose that saw everything. Her gaze broke through atoms and protons and neutrons, searching for the space between…

  He shook his head free of the purple prose, looked away, then looked back. The woman was staring down now, biting on her lower lip.

  Maybe for someone it was a beginning. An out.

  “Are you all right?” he heard his voice ask.

  She looked up and he saw her eyes were dark blue. She blinked at him and he expected a terse nod or a simple “fine.” Or even for her to get up and move away from this strange violation of subway etiquette.

  Instead she sighed and said, “I will be.”

  She got off at the next stop. Jav shivered inside his pea coat after the train lurched into motion again, as if the woman took all the available heat with her.

  Everyone who knew me believes I’m dead.

  “I don’t believe you’re dead,” Jav said under his breath. He reached behind his head, sliding fingers under his collar and along his backbones, until they touched the tender skin where a new tattoo was healing. His beloved mariner and the place where his ship went down five years ago:

  trueblood

  39° 59′ 0″ N, 78° 51′ 59″ W

  As he was walking up the subway steps at 168th Street, his personal cell phone rang. The screen showed an unidentified number with a 914 area code. “Javier Landes.”

  “Mr. Landes,” a woman’s voice said. “My name is Pearl Paradise.”

  I’ll bet it is, Jav thought, ducking around some scaffolding outside the subway stop. “Yes?”

  “I’m an attorney with the law firm of Lowenstein, Silver and Snow. I’m looking for Javier Rafael Gil deSoto. Have I reached the right person?”

  Jav was crossing Broadway and nearly stopped short in traffic, tripping over his own name. “That’s me,” he said, his heart kicking up a few beats. “In another life, anyway.”

  “Mr. Landes, I’m calling about Naroba Seaver.”

  “Naroba?” Now Jav did stop short. Stood still in the middle of the sidewalk, the sea of pedestrians parting around him. “My sister, Naroba?”

  Everyone who knew me believes I’m dead.

  “Mr. Landes, would it be possible for you to come talk to me?”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Where?”

  “We’re located in Poughkeepsie, but we have office space in White Plains as well if it’s more convenient.”

  “And what is this regarding?”

  “I’m not comfortable discussing this on the phone. It’s critical I meet with you in person.”

  She’s dead, Jav thought. What else could it be? He swallowed and began walking again. “Is she alive?”

  “I can come to White Plains tomorrow. Are you available at nine thirty?”

  “Can you at least tell me if my sister’s alive?”

  A pause. “No, Mr. Landes, I’m sorry. She passed away a few days ago.”

  The queen is dead.

  “What happened?”

  “Mr. Landes…”

  “Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “All right. Nine thirty. What’s the address?”

  She gave it to him. “It’s a short walk from the train station. I will see you tomorrow then. And Mr. Landes?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bring some identification.”

  Jav got the feeling she didn’t mean his library card. He took the train up the next morning, armed with proof of his existence. Driver’s license, birth certificate and a copy of the court petition with his legal name change.

  He’d chewed all night on the idea of Naroba being dead and couldn’t connect with it. Sadness for the estrangement stirred his heart, then a small fistfight between defiance and guilt broke out. The schism wasn’t his fault. He’d looked for her after 9/11. Occasionally, in the five years since, he looked again, searching combinations of Naroba and Naria and rearranging Gil deSoto.

  Did he try hard enough?

  His pride crossed its arms. She didn’t look for him, either. She was no Queen Naria. She was Naroba the Weak. She’d always been a doormat.

  Now she was dead.

  I looked for her. I couldn’t find her, she changed her name.

  Naroba Seaver. So she’d gotten married. Thanks for the invitation.

  You changed your name. How would she have even found you?

  He looked out the window of the train with a small snort. They’d found him now, hadn’t they? And what was this all about anyway, did she leave him something?

  To my brother, Javier, I leave my deepest apologies…

  �
��Bet she left me her debts,” he mumbled. His eyes narrowed, remembering Rosa’s drunken laughter over the phone.

  Naroba hates you.

  She championed him once. She grabbed the check from Cricket and held onto it while Rosa beat her with a belt.

  She’d spit in your pretty face.

  Naroba apologized to the air for breathing. The air turned its back on her.

  The queen is dead.

  Jav got off at White Plains with a headache, and walked the few blocks to the office building. Pearl Paradise was a good-looking woman in her forties, sleek and sharp with glasses. With her name, she needed that uncompromising appearance. Jav accepted a cup of coffee and kept the obvious remarks to himself.

  “Thank you for coming in,” Pearl said, closing the door. “Did you bring ID?”

  Jav handed his papers over.

  “Yes, the name change,” she said, peering over the tops of her glasses. “It delayed us tracking you down.”

  “I’m not used to family looking for me.”

  “I’m sorry to know that. And despite the circumstances, I am sorry for your loss.”

  Jav gave a small nod. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She took off her glasses. “A tragic accident, I’m afraid. She fell down the stairs.”

  Jav’s eyebrows came down. “At home?”

  “Yes. Her son found her.”

  “Her son.”

  “Yes. Aaron Seaver, he’s seventeen.”

  Jav’s hands grew cold. “Jesus… What about her husband?”

  “Mrs. Seaver was a widow.”

  “I see.” His fingertips were prickling. “Where’s her son now? Who’s taking care of him?”

  Pearl laced her fingers together. “This is why I’ve had you come in, Mr. Landes. In her will, Mrs. Seaver named you as legal guardian for Ari.”

  Jav felt his eyes bulge and blink rapidly. “Me?”

  She nodded, then separated out a sheaf of papers, folded them back to a page and slid it across the table. Jav reached for his own glasses and leaned to look where Pearl’s fingertip circled:

  …If it is necessary to appoint a guardian, I appoint my brother, Javier Gil deSoto, as guardian of my child, Aaron Rafael Seaver (born Aaron Rafael Gil deSoto)…

  Jav flipped to the first page. “When did she make this?”

  “It was last revised in two thousand, following the death of her husband.”

  Jav flipped back, reread the guardian paragraph and looked up. “Do you know if my mother is alive?”

  “Our research found she passed in two thousand four.”

  “In Florida?”

  “Yes.”

  Now I’m the only one left, Jav thought. “I still don’t understand,” he said. “Why weren’t any of her husband’s family named as guardian?”

  Pearl opened her hands. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer. One possible reason is Ari wasn’t Nick Seaver’s biological child. But Nick legally adopted Ari in ninety-eight. That’s why he’s Seaver.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Jav said, running a hand through his hair. “Where’s my uncle now?”

  “Pardon?”

  Jav shook his head, confused. “My nephew, rather. I’m the uncle.”

  Pearl sat back, swinging her glasses by one earpiece. “He was just released from Hudson Bluffs Medical Center. He collapsed at the police station and we’ve learned he was extremely ill last year. An adrenal infection of some kind. It still affects his body’s capability to cope with a severe shock such as this.”

  “But he’s all right?”

  “He’s fine. Physically fine, that is. He’s been transferred to a juvenile residential facility in Guelisten.” She put up a hand, anticipating Jav’s next question. “It’s not a detention center. It’s a private group home for adolescents. In fact it’s one of the best in the state.”

  “You’re telling me nobody… No friends, no one who could take him in? A priest or a teacher? A coach?”

  Pearl pointed to the papers. “We start with the will, Mr. Landes. He’s a minor and his mother made legal, binding instructions.”

  “I meant in the interim, instead of sticking him in a… Oh, never mind. Who am I kidding? I slept in a stockroom for three months.” Jav drummed his fingers on the table. “I’m sorry, it’s hard to get my head around this.”

  “I can only imagine. Please, whatever questions you have, ask them. We have to do what’s best for everyone, so it’s important you know your options.”

  “Suppose… Remove me from the equation. I mean, suppose I was dead as well. What would become of him?”

  “Both the social worker at the hospital and the county social worker agree Lark House is the best place for him.”

  “Lark House is the…?”

  “The group home, yes. It’s structured toward transitional living for teens phasing out of foster care. Foster care for Ari is pointless because of his age. He’s seventeen. He’d age out in a year anyway, it would be more disruptive than beneficial. Lark House is the ideal place for him to transition to independence. Second, the boy’s been traumatized by a shock, which is the worst thing for someone with adrenal deficiencies. He needs to be somewhere where his physical and mental health can be monitored. He needs counseling. He needs an advocate. Lark House can do all this.”

  “I see.”

  “Plus he has a dog.” Pearl sighed. “If you thought it couldn’t get worse. When Mrs. Seaver fell down the stairs, her purse spilled out onto the floor. The dog got into it and chewed up a pack of gum. Apparently sugarless gum has a chemical that can be lethal to dogs. Poor thing almost died. He’s at the Hudson Bluffs Animal Shelter.”

  “Christ,” Jav said, exhaling heavily. “All right. So he’s at this place, Lark House?”

  “Yes.”

  “In Guelisten.”

  “Yes. North of Poughkeepsie. Pretty town.”

  “Where is my sister now? I mean, was there a funeral? Will there be?”

  “Per the request in her will, she was cremated. The ashes will go to Ari.”

  “Poor kid,” Jav said. “Seventeen?”

  “Yes. He’s a junior at Morgantown High School.”

  “Seventeen’s when I got thrown out of the house.”

  “Mm.”

  Jav ran his thumb along the edges of the will’s pages. “I’ll be honest, I don’t have a lot of good experience with uncles. One had a hobby of ambushing me on the streets, shaking me down for money. The other would pass me on the sidewalk without a word or a glance.”

  “I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened.”

  “I’ll go up tomorrow. I’ll drive up in the morning and see him. And we’ll…meet.”

  She smiled. “It’s a start.”

  “Is Pearl Paradise your real name?”

  “It is,” she said. “Do you want to get a drink?”

  He laughed. “Thanks, but at the moment I like you for your brains.”

  She squared off her papers, looking pleased behind her glasses.

  Jav went home and tried to write—he kept to a disciplined quota of a thousand words a day. Whether the words were good, bad or utter crap, the daily allotment kept the faucet open.

  His attention kept wandering. To Gloria. To the woman on the subway. To the voice of Paradise on the phone. To memories that touched him on the shoulder, then ran away teasing when he turned his head.

  Everyone who knew me believes I’m dead.

  He went for a run, hoping it would either silence his thoughts or sharpen them. As he neared Central Park, a firm clear conviction settled in his mind: Don’t be them. Be different. Be what an uncle is supposed to be. Be what nobody was for you.

  He called Pearl Paradise in White Plains. He called Lark House in Guelisten. And he called Gloria and asked if he could borrow her car.

  He threw some stuff in a bag, took the subway back to Riverdale, then headed up the Henry Hudson Parkway in Gloria’s Range Rover. It was a grey, chilly day, the Hudson Valley painted in
neutral shades of brown. Two hours after leaving Manhattan, Jav was turning off Route 9D and following the signs to Guelisten. As Pearl said, it was a pretty, quaint village perched above the river, charming with its streets of well-maintained Victorian houses.

  Bemelman Street wound uphill through a residential area, petering out at a bluff with spectacular river views. A large, white farmhouse was set back from the cul de sac and further beyond was an immense barn converted into living space.

  Jav parked in the small visitor’s lot and headed up the front steps of the farmhouse. It was colder and more blustery up on this plateau. The wind chimes hung between the struts of the porch were singing their hearts out.

  A plaque next to the door read In Memory of Beatrice “Billie” Lark, 1905-1981. Who dedicated a life to service and made a home for the children of Dutchess County.

  The cheerful woman at the front desk had Jav sign in, making a copy of his driver’s license. “Ari’s in the library,” she said. “I’ve put it on restriction tonight so you’ll have privacy. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  Jav declined, thanked her and headed in the direction she pointed. His heart was pounding. Even going on his first paid date didn’t make his heart into a kettle drum like this.

  He paused in the doorway.

  It was Señor Gil deSoto in the library with a bottle of mamajuana.

  The fire was lit and a dark-haired boy slouched in an easy chair in front of it, reading, one knee hooked over the chair’s arm. The careless, sideways sprawl that looked uncomfortable to adult eyes but was second nature to adolescents.

  “Ari?” Jav said.

  The boy looked up.

  Jav’s first impression was Ari was sicker than Pearl let on. He was thin. Painfully thin. His face hollow, the jutting cheekbones fragile. But they were Jav’s cheekbones. His eyes had the same shape as Jav’s, the brows above following the exact same slant. As Jav walked closer, he found a bit of Rafael. And when Ari stood up, crossed his arms and lifted his chin, it was Nesto’s cocky, defiant stance.

  “So where’ve you been?” Ari said. The voice was surprisingly deep and strong, coming from such a skinny kid.

  He’s a kid, Jav reminded himself. He’s lost his mother. He’s scared shitless. Hostility makes good armor.