She flips her head back, and her dark hair bounces; she exhales a neat smoke ring. “So next I’ll have to start drinking. A lot. Vodka with brandy chasers.”
She exhales another smoke ring and practices crossing her eyes as she watches the smoke ascend. “Neat, huh?
“What I wanted to ask you,” she says, “is, what do you think Scott is up to?”
“Something,” I agree. “But he seems like a guy who usually has an agenda.”
This time she lets the smoke come out through her nostrils. “Believe it or not, he and I were extra close. For a while. A while ago.”
“I thought maybe.”
“That was in Thebes, where your dad was. I guess maybe now Scotty’s ashamed of it, but he’s had some other tarts since then he could be more ashamed of. Know what I mean?
“I mean, I’m a prominent woman. Crazy or not, I’ve done things. Degrees all over the fucking universe. I teach at Brown, for Christ’s sake. That’s way better than Yale for some stuff.”
I agree with her that Brown could be better than Yale in some areas. Academic gossip is funny. I don’t remember the details, but the general feeling of it has rubbed off on me. I understand about Yale, and Brown, and Chicago, and UC Berkeley. UC Berkeley was where my dad was.
“And what in hell is Scott the Stud doing here?” she asks. “I came to get away from the world for private personal psychiatric reasons—a suitcase full of meds and my shrink on the long-distance phone every day and Egon kind of protects me. Better on my record than the Menninger Clinic. But I don’t think Scott’s faced with a psychiatric meltdown. Do you?”
“No.”
“Which leaves, why is he here? It didn’t just happen; he engineered it. This Scholars’ Institute is an invented entity, like we say in criticism, and Scott invented it and then invited himself to be in it. He wasn’t figuring on Egon inviting me, too.”
She taps off her cigarette ash. The room is getting full of smoke. “So what do you think?”
“Does it have anything to do with the Hartdale Grant?”
Rita sits up. She looks triumphant. “Socko!”
“You mean it does?”
“I dunno. But I thought it did. And then I couldn’t figure out how. Because, believe me, that Hartdale Committee, whoever they are—Archbishop Tutu, Einstein’s ghost, and God, whoever—they met a long time ago and whoever gets tapped for this year is already chosen and no terrific thing anybody discovers now is gonna change that. So.”
“And Scott is supposed to be one of the recipients?”
She scowls. “Wanta bet he started that rumor?”
I shrug. Yes, it seems possible Scott started the buzz about himself and the Hartdale. But I’m having a Junior Moment of feeling guilty about Scott. I’ve been on his case, nagging him about everything for a whole day now. I’ve told myself the reason is my bad history with the Habitat boyfriend, but a likelier reason is Rob. Or Rob and Cherie. I get another throb of righteous fury when I think of them. Rob. Cherie. How can he?
Rita squashes out her cigarette.
The room now stinks as bad as our apartment in Santa Cruz used to. Rob’s and my apartment.
“Rita,” I say, “what made you so sure about my dad? That he was trying to kill Mr. Broussard?”
Rita frowns. She reaches for another cigarette, and then seems to think better of it. She pushes the top of the package down, firmly stows it in her pocket. “You ever been seriously depressed?”
I think about this. Of course I’ve been depressed, but not the way she means. Not the completely gone depression that sends you to the hospital. “No.”
“Well, it louses up everything—the way you sit, how you stand, breathe, think—everything. What you hear, how you hear it, what you see. And especially what you read. It all seems terrible. So maybe most of it is, anyway, terrible. But if you’re depressed, it’s extra, super, drag-down awful. Take just one phrase. Walk, don’t walk. That thing they flash at intersections. The epitome of neutral, you’d say. But if you’re depressed? Whammo. Not neutral. Seems like a command from outer space. Negative. Controlling. Sinister. Threatening. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“So I was like that. Everything’s awful; everything’s a threat; along comes this little poem on the Internet: Day is death / Day is destruction—got it?”
“Well, I guess.”
“It was presented like a couple of lines from that series of Middle Kingdom prediction poems—you know the ones, the Prophecies, Complaints, and Admonitions, about how awful everything is going to be . . .”
I don’t tell Rita I’m flattered by her assumption that I know the poems. I’ll take her word on them.
“For me,” she goes on, “that Day in the poem was your dad, Edward Day. He had just come here to the museum and I’d seen him. And I used to love him a lot, back when. We used to joke—me and the other people on the dig—about his name, Day, and him being so sunny and bright. Most archaeologists don’t have much personality.”
“And you thought the poem meant something about him?”
“Well, it was crazy; I was crazy. I thought it meant he wasn’t a saint anymore; he was the devil. And then, while I was thinking that, I saw your dad on the floor with Marcus.
“I was crazy then, remember?
“But what was really weird was that poem. It was printed up like a page from an Internet site where people exchange versions of Egyptian poetry. But when I tried to check it later, it wasn’t there.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s a real site about Egyptian poetry—new versions, new translations—but there wasn’t any little ‘Day’ poem on it the second time I looked.
“So at first I thought somebody was gaslighting me. And then when I got better, I was perfectly sure that there really had been a poem. But I couldn’t find it.
“So go figure.”
She reaches for the cigarette pack and says, “Oh, shit . . . Hey, I really am going to quit smoking. Save this in remembrance of me.” And she tosses me her cigarette lighter.
“That stupid verse didn’t even sound like an Egyptian poem.” She scrambles to her feet. “I knew that.”
Pausing by the door, she says, “That was one of the best times in my life, that spring in Thebes. Five years ago. One of those bouts you get only once. Know what I mean?”
Five years ago would have been just before Daddy began to lose it to Alzheimer’s. I guess he was still okay then.
I don’t tell Rita that I have memories of Thebes, too, but this was a while before she was there. I was fifteen and Rob was eighteen. And my dad, who still had every one of his marbles, was seventy-five.
It’s Scott. “Greetings, Lady Blues Enthusiast,” he says, as if he and I were old, close, amicable buddies.
“Hello, Scott.” I’m still suffering from my Junior Moment of guilt, so I probably sound nicer than I am.
“Hey,” he says. “Lady Blues Enthusiast: How about going out for a drink?”
“Now?”
“Sure.”
“Scott, it’s quarter of eleven at night.”
“Great hour for a drink.”
“No.”
“Try it. Just once.”
“We’re in the middle of no place. You gonna raid Egon’s refrigerator?”
“We aren’t, as you so elitistly put it, in the middle of no place. There’s a Best Western Motel, with a bar, ten minutes away.”
I open my mouth to protest about the Best Western bar and then realize that I’m painting myself into a corner. Scott will now suggest another bar, a better hotel . . . “No.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Night after that? Lunch? Afternoon trip to the big city?”
“Hey, Scott, cut it out.” I don’t sound as nasty as I ought to sound. This man has a smart-aleck, acid side to him. Firm up, Carla.
“I’ll be back.”
What on earth is the matter with me? “Listen, bro, you hav
en’t a chance,” I say. I tune in on myself, and I sound flirtatious.
“Okay. Sleep well. Long empty night ahead.” He signs off, sounding pleased.
Obviously, I feel guilty at having stiffed him so consistently for something he didn’t do.
Nuts.
Flapping a towel again doesn’t help much with any of my problems. I still feel cross at myself. And the room continues to smell of those black cigarettes.
Oh, hell.
The fifth visitor of the evening.
It’s Cherie, gabbling away in a schoolgirl e-mail shorthand:
Hi dd u no I’m stil in ur bakyard things poppin all ovr lkg frwrd 2 hang tt sherf up by hs tiny bals Wt a treat & tt other thing mr Broussard rely bothrs me ts s pretty wird stuff cant wait 2 c u & talk luv luv cheri Njoying t scen ard here luv luv luv
Chapter 8
“That is one classy-looking lady.” This is the opinion of Bunny Modjeska, viewing Cherie Ghent. Cherie, complete in pink pantsuit and Mustang convertible, has just arrived at the museum with a Chronicle reporter in tow. The Chronicle reporter, a man, is young and sweet-looking, with floppy hair and pimples. Cherie is gorgeous and determined. Her short blond hair is newly layered.
She and the reporter are cruising the museum, but the purpose of their visit is for the reporter to interview Daddy about the sheriff. “I am going to splash that story all over this paper and the rest of the papers in the U.S.A.,” Cherie says. “It’ll be a national scandal. People making speeches in Congress.” She is walking between the glass cases and viewing the displays as she talks. “Hey, I really like this weird guy with the falcon head, handsome, huh? And a dynamite great shape” (a statue of Horus, king of the gods).
“Darling,” she picks up, addressing me, “boy, have I missed you. A helluva lot going on.”
I tell her that I gathered as much, and try to sound sarcastic, but she’s far beyond me. “Guess what? Me and your little friend Rob got together; hey, how’s that? I guess you don’t think much about him anymore; well, he turns out to be a really sweet guy, and you might not believe it because he seems kinda stiff at first and you’re used to that, but after you know him some . . .”
Here, thank God, she’s interrupted by the arrival of my father, the ostensible object of this visit, who has come down from upstairs. “Darling Crocodile, am I glad to see you. This here is Steve, he’s a reporter for the Chronicle, isn’t that great? And he is going to talk to you about what that sheriff did to you.”
And Cherie, Daddy, the reporter, and I head for the elevator, where we are whisked up to Daddy’s room for an interview.
The Chronicle reporter doesn’t seem to mind that the interview consists almost entirely of comments from my dad, which are enthusiastic, gentle, and have nothing to do with the questions he’s being asked, and interpolations by Cherie that answer the questions.
“How very lovely to see you, my dear,” Daddy addresses Cherie. “I know you’ve been on a dig; how did it go?”
He asks the Chronicle reporter if he is one of his students. He tells both of them it’s too late now to go into the Valley, but if they can arrive earlier tomorrow, preferably just before sunrise . . .
Meanwhile Cherie is describing the tight grip that the sheriff had on Daddy and the handcuffs that he twisted on him, and makes Daddy put his hands up and behind to illustrate the position this forced him into. My father is complaisant about this, although at one point he asks, “Are you thinking of the position the seeker adopted under the tree, my dear? He wouldn’t have had to reach so high.”
“Stevie here,” Cherie says, “is a newer reporter, but he is way sharp. He is going to be one of their ace guys. Steve, I have a great eye for that stuff, I can always tell; you are going to do some world-beating news stories. Now you know that the sheriff did that attack not once, but twice. To this gentle, distinguished old gentleman? The second time, Croc, he accused you, didn’t he; he practically accused you of being a murderer. Just because you were there?”
Surprisingly, Daddy cues in for this question. “I said a spell for the occasion. But I don’t know if he understood that.”
“Highly unlikely. He accused you of murder and forced you down into a chair.”
The Chronicle reporter seems to have filled up several pages of notes. He looks a little puzzled, but also happy.
Cherie says that both of them will stay for lunch, but after that the reporter, who has his own car, must get back to the city. She, Cherie, will remain awhile longer. “I am fascinated by this place. The museum. It looks like something I’ve seen before.”
I say, “Well, Egon tries for that,” but she disagrees. “No, I mean really something I’ve seen before, not just in pictures. I know this architecture is partly fake Egyptian and partly fake Greek, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Cherie, of course, is brighter than I want her to be. She’s not just a cute curvy blonde in a pink pantsuit. She’s quick, intelligent, manipulative. Probably Rob is crazy about her.
I go down to lunch feeling mad at myself.
“How delightful,” Egon says. “I am so glad you decided to stay for lunch. Edward’s lawyer, you say? What a fine idea.” He beams and passes a plate of curried mushrooms. This noon’s menu is Vegetarian Near Eastern.
Egon says he would be honored to take Cherie on a tour of the premises. “Wonderful. To get your opinions. I can see you have excellent taste.”
Scott wants to interview Cherie on how she got to be a lawyer. Rita asks about shoes and nail polish colors. “I mean, hey, that shade is terrific,” she tells her.
Daddy says Cherie is going to take him on a walk down to the railroad track. “Absolutely,” she says. “I adore trains.”
Stevie the newsman volunteers that Cherie handled a case against Southern Pacific, and Bunny comments that, wow, that is big time. And Egon talks about the stolen artifacts and wonders if Cherie can help him with his insurance problems.
Scott starts a couple of lectures about intercoastal American transportation and about travel during the reign of Amenhotep III. He lets both of these lectures trail off, with a throwaway of, “Oh, hell, there I go again.”
Lunch is lively. I’m the only unhappy person at the table.
She does this with an arm around my shoulders. “You got to come along, honey bun. Help me out.”
“For company,” she half explains, squeezing a shoulder blade and glancing at Egon. I’m puzzled. No one would suspect Egon of being unsafe to be alone with.
I’ve had enough of Cherie for a day. For a week. But also, I want to find out what she’s up to.
We start out, with Cherie holding my hand. She does this firmly; she’s surprisingly strong and exerts some muscle.
First we do the museum, Egon leading and chanting, “Wonderful, just look,” and Cherie asking questions, about the difference between Akhnaten’s reign and his father’s, about Amarna art, with its elongated figures and faces. Her questions are smart ones. She likes the Amarna better than the traditional. She’s right.
I have a moment of rebellion. I am not going to end up liking this woman, I decide.
“Hey,” she asks when we pause to admire a statue of the Apis bull, “who was the handsome cat at lunch? The one who couldn’t finish his lectures?”
I explain that Scott was probably too impressed with her to be coherent, and she turns an amazed turquoise gaze at me. “Me? It was you, sweet cakes. You were the one he was watching.”
I think I’ve misunderstood. “Huh?”
“He was tracking you. The whole time.”
“No he wasn’t.”
“Carla, tune in. You don’t like him? He thought you did like him.”
“Nuts.” I tug loose from her hand and listen for a while to Egon, who is telling us how the Apis bull is a creation god. Yet another fertility symbol.
At the end of this gallery, after we have passed my friend the cheerful plump cartonnage lady (and Cherie admires her appropriately, exclaiming, �
�Great mascara”), Cherie turns toward Egon. “Sir,” she says, “is it all right to call you Egon?”
“Oh, my dear. Of course.”
“Well, you know, I think I remember that Croc said—that is, my darling Ed—did he say something about a crypt? I mean, some special place that you built downstairs? I love the architecture here and I would really appreciate—not, of course, if it’s private—but if I could maybe see it . . .”
“My dear,” Egon interprets, “you want to see the crypt? Just for special people, of course. But yes, for you. A special person. Of course. And Carla, too.”
Egon calls for Bunny Modjeska and asks for the electronic remote. “Keys and electronic signals,” he says. “All these devices. Things get difficult.
“That’s why I can’t understand. The thefts—and they’re getting worse—how can they be happening? Ms. Ghent, you couldn’t help us a tiny bit, pressuring the insurance company?”
Cherie smiles noncommittally.
The crypt is approached from the underground passages. As we are entering them, Rita joins us, carrying a flashlight.
Rita announces loudly that there’s nobody there; she checked.
Egon gestures ahead as his button-pushing makes a section of fake marble wall roll up into the ceiling. Lights come on, revealing a psychedelic mix of columns, murals, sculptured finials, solemn erect figures, and in the middle, the monumental construction of a double marble coffin on pilasters, one coffin container below, one above. There is an interesting smell of cold, incense-flavored stone.
I want to say, “Wow,” but don’t. Cherie says, “Egon, absolutely fab. My God.”
I also want to ask who the second coffin is for, but Egon answers my question. “I, of course, will rest here later.”
Should we say, “Much later?” I guess Egon assumes this.
There is a reverent silence. “And your grandmother is below,” Cherie says.
Below? Cherie catches my eye and winks. Rita aims her flashlight at the roof, where a parade of people is led by the hawk-headed god.
Erased From Memory Page 6