Fire in the Blood

by Perry O'Brien

  “Fuck all this,” Zameer said. “Right?” He looked to Buqa, but her eyes were elsewhere.

  “You have any nice shirts?” said Kosta, still staring through the space where Zameer had been. “A tie, maybe?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Coop came awake panting in the dark, keenly aware that he was being watched. Tossing aside the covers he crawled from the small bed, moving to the window. Across from the motel there was an abandoned shipping depot, and frantically Coop scanned the scarred brick facade, checking each broken window for a shape of greater darkness.

  Finally Coop sank down to sit on the floor. The red digits of his bedside clock read 4:00.

  It was the morning of Kay’s funeral.

  Sucking air through his nose, Coop tried to calm himself. He hadn’t known that grief could feel so much like the death-fear of combat: the hurried heartbeat, the pale sweating. A superstition against movement competed with the sudden feeling that he needed to shit.

  There was no chance of getting back to sleep, so Coop turned on the lights and began to prepare his Class A’s. He settled into the ritual with a grim concentration, losing himself to the hot steam from the iron, the smell of Brasso, the prick of steel grommets against his fingertips. After smoothing the creases in his shirt, pants, and jacket, he began to polish his Sta-Brite skill badges, starting with the billowing chrome parachute of his Jump Wings and then moving to the laurel-wrapped Expert Marksman’s cross. Next he fetched his jump boots, attacking any scuff marks with his wood-handled brush, then using a lighter to heat up a can of black Kiwi. With two rag-wrapped fingers he buffed the leather until it shone like volcanic glass.

  Coop hoped the uniform would make up for the raw, blistered pink of his sunburned face. Even worse were the fight signs; a dark crescent below his left eye, and under his neck, the collar of bruises from when Anaya choked him out.

  Coop called for a taxi and waited outside the hotel. It was a bitter, bright morning. An icy wind came gusting off the nearby bay, stinging his freshly shaved jaw.

  In the taxi Coop found his mind drifting toward an image from his childhood: the harpooned man. The man was shot in black-and-white, an old photograph another kid had torn from a magazine and carried to Coop’s one-classroom school, where it was passed from desk to desk, triggering a slow wave of wide eyes and uneasy, stifled giggles. The photograph showed a man sitting on an exam table. His torso was bare, except for the bandages. Pinned through his chest was a crooked iron rod. The photo was shot so you could see both ends of the bar. The length of metal protruding from his chest ended in a dull cap, whereas the piece sticking out his back had a broad, jagged head. The man was fully conscious, his face clenched in a look of exasperation, like he was annoyed to still be alive.

  The traffic was bad, and Coop felt his heart beat faster with each lurch of the car. Three years he and Kay had been married, but they’d never met each other’s families—it was something they had in common, a proud and willful rootlessness—so the Bellantes had always existed for him as an idea, a storm cloud of power and gloom. He knew only a basic assortment of facts. Her father had died when she was five, there had been no other children, and Mother (as Kay had always called her) had never remarried. While the immediate family was just the two of them, Kay had grown up surrounded by friends, distant relations, and business associates of her father, all of them immersed in the financial world. Hence Kay’s nickname for this network: the Black Magic Money Club.

  In Coop’s mind it was a fitting epithet, because money was his only real experience with the Bellantes. The checks came in regularly, monthly deposits of $2,000. “My mother’s insurance against remorse,” Kay had once called the allowance. “This way, if something bad happens to me down here in Army Land, she gets to say she was doing her very best to provide.”

  The money was more than Coop’s base salary, and combined with Army marriage benefits—healthcare, a house on post with free utilities, and an extra living stipend—the payments had made it possible for Kay and him to plan numerous escapes from Fort Bragg, at least whenever Coop managed to get a weekend pass. But even when he couldn’t leave, Kay would always find ways to vanish the money. She seemed afraid to let her bank account grow, as if this would represent an accumulation of her mother’s influence. Once Coop had returned from a weekend of field exercises to find that Kay had donated her allowance to a Florida-based snake rescue group. Soon after Kay made her contribution they began to receive thank-you cards in the mail, each featuring a photo of an exotic python and signed with names like Mojo and Cleopatra. The postcards were probably still coming, Coop realized. He imagined going back to the house on Honeycutt Road and standing ankle-deep in a squirming pile of glossy postcards.

  “The Whitestone, it’s all backed up,” said the taxi driver. “I’m gonna take the 295.”

  “Sure,” said Coop.

  “Okay, okay,” said the driver, licking his lips as he angled toward the right lane.

  Coop was clueless as to what this might mean for the journey. He’d purchased a pocket map of New York at the airport, but found it head-poundingly intricate. He was accustomed to grid maps of wide-open terrain, the desert’s concentric geography interrupted by singular roads and the occasional minefield.

  Now the taxi vaulted up onto a wide suspension bridge. Coop caught glances of hazy towers to the west, the skyline flashing between the bridge cables. City of all cities; the wounded capital of the war. Even at this great distance Manhattan seemed to perch on the world like a crown, looming over the river and the huddled docks and port yards along the river. Then the cab sank down onto a web of concrete highways spanning a canal of frozen mud before dropping into the Bronx, where they drove past delis, municipal offices, and low-roofed housing blocks. As the cab pulled off East Tremont the cathedral seemed to rear up from nowhere, a gray fortress flanked by two stone towers.

  Around the church were snow-covered grounds with a few trees, surrounded by a low black metal fence topped in spaded prongs, and as they pulled closer Coop saw the towers were slotted with narrow windows, as if ready for medieval archers to take aim. Alongside the church stretched a long line of black luxury vehicles. Floating free from the cars came a steady parade of funeral guests wearing scarves and long dark coats. They collected in a throng, helping one another across the frozen parking lot, and as Coop exited his cab he saw several heads turn in his direction.

  Since there was no point in trying to blend in, he made his way toward the oxblood-painted door that marked the church entrance. Here he joined the other guests, all of whom were dressed in rich black wools. Standing among them Coop became increasingly self-conscious of the coarse nylon of his uniform, the gaudiness of his tin medals. Even his wedding ring felt cheap against the tailored finery of those around him. He drew back his shoulders, but the posture felt forced, and the harder he tried to stand proud, the more he felt a rising anger of deficiency.

  The line moved forward toward the main cathedral. At the end of the hallway each guest was being greeted by a small, black-shawled woman: Kay’s mother. Inadvertently Coop slowed his march, struck by the narrow figure and sharp eyes of this woman he’d only seen in photographs, the Bellante matron who’d exercised such phantom power over his wife.

  Coop remembered the vacation he and Kay had taken together to Wrightsville beach, the trip coming back to him as desolate stretches of sand and the frantic light from bonfires. They had rented a cottage with weathered shingles and big windows looking out on the sea, and every night they went down under the concrete fishing pier and sat together in the cooling sand, watching the ocean crash in green sprays against the weather-stained pylons. On the last day of their vacation Coop had found Kay in the backyard behind their cottage, sitting with her legs up in a rusty lawn chair and crying. Wild marsh weeds sprouted around her, and insects careened through the hot salty air. At first Coop felt a spike of worry, the tight-c
hested apprehension of things unraveling, and quickly he tried to guess what he’d done wrong and how he might fix it. But then he saw the true culprit, a cordless phone lying in the dented grass.

  “Your mother?” Coop asked, kneeling down next to her. Kay’s shoulders trembled, and when she turned to look at him her face was ruddy and wet. She had a strong, almost manly definition to her jaw, and now she stuck her chin at him, in defiance of the tears running down her face.

  “One of these days you should let me to talk to her,” he said, staring hard at the phone.

  Kay wiped her eyes. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “My mother would destroy you.”

  Then she unfolded herself from the chair, and in a few short steps Kay vanished into the afternoon darkness of the beach house.

  The line in the church had flowed steadily forward, and now there were only a few guests left between himself and Mrs. Bellante. Coop was struck with a fresh panic: What if they didn’t let him in? Then the guests ahead of him parted, and Coop found himself standing before his mother-in-law.

  Up close Mrs. Bellante was surprisingly young, with bright eyes and just a few crackles at the corner of her lips. Her skin was deeply tanned, so dark it was easy to remember Italians had once been considered a different race. Coop watched as her eyes ticked across his uniform, his name tag, and finally, up to his face.

  “Oh good,” she said. “Mr. Cooper.” Breathing his name as if relieved to see him. Before he could respond she leaned forward and placed her arms around him, bringing him into the folds of her black shawl, which he now saw was ornamented with a subtle arabesque of darker black. She’s hugging me, Coop tried to process. Other than McKenzie’s embrace back at the FOB, it was the second time in nine months he’d been this close to a woman.

  “We’re just so grateful you could join us,” said Kay’s mother, her voice breaking a little as she projected over his shoulder.

  Coop brought up his arms to return the embrace, surprised by the jolt of bodily recognition; same small breasts, same corrugation of ribs over a plumper, sloping waist—he flashed to memories of undressing this woman’s daughter, kissing each other sloppily, laughing as Coop fingered the top copper button of Kay’s fancy corduroys. Mrs. Bellante gently leaned back, beginning to release her arms, and Coop felt his grip tighten. Pressing her toward him with the barest exhale of breath. Abruptly she withdrew, blinking, but left a hand on Coop’s shoulder—a sign of affection, but also a point of leverage, keeping him at a certain distance.

  “Mr. Cooper, I want you to meet Katherine’s cousin,” she said, indicating a young man at her right, dressed in a three-piece of charcoal pinstripe.

  “Theo,” said the man. Coop hadn’t noticed him before but now he stepped forward as if coming onto a stage, reaching out to squeeze Coop’s hand. “So great to meet you,” said Theo. “So great.”

  “Theo will show you to your seat,” said Mrs. Bellante, and Theo nodded at her before turning back to Coop, his smile artificially eager. Coop had the strange intuition that this had been rehearsed.

  “And we’ll have plenty of time to talk later,” murmured Mrs. Bellante, her arms already spreading open to pull in the next guest. Theo’s hand replaced hers on Coop’s shoulder. He found himself being steered through another set of doors opening into a cavernous hall, where vast columns rose up like giant ribs toward a vaulted ceiling. Arched windows of stained glass provided the only illumination, scenes of martyrdom burning with jeweled light.

  The church nave was thickly congested. Theo parted the wall of guests with handshakes and back pats, and it quickly became clear to Coop that Kay’s cousin was somebody within the Money Club. He had the proud, easy shoulders of a senior officer, someone who expected to be important, and Coop noticed he began every encounter with a preemptive, disarming smile, anticipating the respects that were inevitably paid so he could instantly deflect them (“No, Signora, thank you for being here”).

  And now that he stood at Theo’s side, Coop understood that he’d been folded into his aura of respect, no longer inspected or scrutinized but lightly appraised, as if he’d become an auxiliary member to this secret club.

  They made their way up the aisle, pausing every few rows to give older folks time to lower themselves into the old wooden pews. “It’s a beautiful tribute,” Coop heard someone say, and his eyes were drawn toward the front of the hall, where a lectern stood half obscured by a massive arrangement of red and white flowers. Coop angled his head to get a better look. And then he understood why the crowd had become so thick here. Frankincense burned in his nostrils. He stood in place, transfixed at the sudden reality of the bronze casket that lay beneath the floral altar.

  Now Theo was pulling him away by the shoulder.

  “Listen, I know it’s a little chaotic in here. But I wanted to say something,” said Kay’s cousin. Coop let himself be maneuvered toward his designated seat, his eyes still focused on the coffin.

  “Thank you. Sincerely. For everything you’re doing for our country, everything you’re sacrificing.”

  “Sure,” said Coop. The scents and crowd were working on him and he felt increasingly lightheaded.

  “We’re just so honored you’d come all this way.”

  Coop turned on him, blinking. Of course I came, you fucking idiot. She was my wife. He looked down at the nearest empty pew. “I’m over here?”

  “That’s right,” said Theo, and Coop moved toward his seat, feeling the eyes of Kay’s cousin still tracking him.

  The church organ moaned to life just as Coop settled himself into a pew, and an elderly man in white vestments appeared behind the altar. The lights were lowered and the priest began to chant. From Coop’s vantage he could see the priest’s hands shaking over the pages of a massive Bible. His head kept bobbing, a penitent tic, and though he delivered the sermon in a voice just louder than a whisper, his voice seemed to exercise a feeble magic over the gathering. There was no movement or noise in the chapel beyond the flickering of the Easter candle, which Coop found himself watching as it dripped globs of wax onto a fat bronze shrine.

  Finally the old man finished, and Coop was surprised to see Theo replace him at the altar.

  “Thank you, Father,” said Theo, his eyes darting over the congregation.

  “And thank you all for coming this evening. We’re so blessed to be joined on this day by so many family members and friends.

  “Although,” said Theo, showing the barest of smiles, “for those of you who were close to Katherine, you know she would have hated all this attention.”

  A murmur of knowing laughter. Theo tried to repeat the joke in Italian, stumbling a little—“Questo è un giorno, uh, tragico”—and the laughter increased.

  Coop looked around at the mourners, these clucking bankers with their shiny eyes, nodding knowingly, women dabbing at their eyes, men patting their wives’ knees. As if they had understood anything about Kay at all. And still they laughed tearfully.

  “We gather on a sad day,” said Theo, “having lost someone who was so very special to us all. I’m honored to be introducing this small tribute, something on behalf of my cousin and her brave and beautiful mother, my aunt.”

  Coop heard a low, mechanical whir. From the ceiling a white screen began descending toward the altar. Theo put his mouth close to the microphone, producing some muffled feedback.

  “Memory, after all, is what will keep Katherine with us.”

  The screen, altar, and casket were suddenly illuminated by a beam of light. Floating in the darkness were millions of dust motes. Coop held his breath.

  An image came shimmering to life, words superimposed over a gentle forest canopy: katherine maria bellante, 1981–2003. The text dissolved into a scanned Polaroid, a smiling baby girl with huge blue eyes. Someone in the audience let out a yulp, followed by a few choked sobs half concealed by the s
oundtrack of chimes and Spanish guitar.

  The slideshow continued with Kay’s Major Life Stages: lots of baby and toddler photographs, then a big jump to the early teen years. Here was Kay in high school, a sly and skinny teenager with red-dyed pigtails to match her Brearley athletic jacket. For the UNC days, the Bellantes had apparently been forced to use a combination of out-of-focus shots taken by friends and promotional photos featuring Kay’s nonprofit work. Coop recognized a picture from a Human Rights Center website, and another from Habitat for Humanity. The show concluded with a close-up on Kay’s face, a flat look, as if she hadn’t wanted her picture taken. And then the projector clicked off and the stage went black.

  Sitting in the dark, it occurred to Coop that the reel hadn’t included a single picture of him and Kay. He’d been completely eclipsed from her life.

  Abruptly the lights came on and the priest shuffled back onstage for a final prayer. Dark suits began rising from the pews as organ music filled the chapel. Coop blinked; his eyes were dry and throbbing.

  Theo encouraged everyone to join the family for a reception in an adjoining hall and the guests were ushered out, drifting away in black clumps until only Coop was left in the pews, his hands gripping the wooden rail. He couldn’t take his eyes off the casket; bronze, inscrutable, cloaked with bright flowers. After waiting a respectful minute, the old priest who’d led the service came hobbling down the aisle and placed a hand on Coop’s shoulder, and together they went out to the reception, leaving Kay alone in the dim light of the cathedral.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Despite all the guests there was a hush over the reception hall, an atmosphere wreathed in low murmurs. Coop heard the clink of porcelain cups and saucers, the occasional thank-you and grazie as tuxedoed footmen slipped through the crowd with trays of pistachio cookies.