Coop opened the next patient file and studied the photograph inside. A scrub-faced old man with a wide mane of white hair and glassy eyes. No incident reports, just a quick notation from his most recent visit: “Jenning has relapsed following job loss.” Coop set the folder down, adding to the other, smaller pile of exonerated junkies.
He closed his eyes again, felt himself circling in the dark, an Ozark wilderness of his own confusion. Trees wheeling around him, a single star at his back. He opened his eyes. Night land navigation, the sapper’s course at Fort Leonard Wood, another memory flaring in the sleepless cave of his brain. He had to get back to the files but he was already moving down the path. With your compass you shoot an azimuth, following the directions on your laminated orders. Dead reckoning was a dangerous prospect at night, especially with just a quarter moon under heavy clouds, so you fix on a major terrain feature, and in Fort Leonard Wood, that means a big tree. The woods are dense, six miles of tight growth, crisscrossed with muddy ravines. And all those species of pit vipers they’d been forced to learn: Osage Copperhead, Water Moccasin, Pygmy Rattlesnake, Massasauga Rattlesnake…or were those snakes from the postcards? Kay, the queen of adopted snakes…but there were definitely pigs out there, muscular wild hogs with razor tusks, you could hear them crashing and snorting in anarchic herds. You sight an azimuth, decide on it, walk. Keeping mental count of your pace. If all goes well, after a certain distance you should arrive at a code-marked tree. But sometimes you complete your pace count and there’s nothing around but more woods. This is a crucial moment. The exact spot you are standing in is the result of all previous work. Lose the line and you’re lost, with no reference of how you arrived. In these cases you are permitted a single glowstick, which you can drop at your feet…a village of huts, each mouth glowing, the blue ghost and her baby with the turquoise pajamas…and you walk in a circle around this tiny beacon, widening in a spiral, hoping to blunder across your point. So you circle outward. The panic grows. You have to keep circling, circling in the dark…
* * *
—
When he woke again the room was hot. Afternoon had come inside, the sun blazing against the window. Coop surveyed the chaos of papers around him. He poured another cup of burnt sludge from the pot, retched after the first sip, and poured the whole mess down the sink, where it steamed in a black pool. He started picking up the files, flattening them out, re-sorting them. The hours counted down.
Then he came across a new batch of paperwork, one he’d initially discarded. Employee Equipment Sign-Out. A spreadsheet of names and phone numbers, and there was “Katherine Cooper.” Next to her name, the word “cellphone” had been printed under the equipment column, along with a number. Next Start had assigned cellphones to all of their caseworkers. Coop tried the number on the hotel line, expecting it to be dead.
But then he was hearing a voice. Her voice.
“Hi, you’ve reached Kay at Next Start. Please leave a message with your number…”
A beep, and Coop listened to Kay’s voicemail recording his breath.
He redialed. Listened again.
Kay’s phone was still activated.
Coop started to think about where the phone might be, but very quickly he knew. Whatever property hadn’t been kept by the police as evidence would have been returned to Kay’s next of kin.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Coop saw glimpses of the Hudson from the window of his taxi, the river flashing at him through a canopy of well-groomed trees. Fresh banks of snow were piled up on either side of the road, and the driver almost missed his turn-off: a green placard delineating the border between Fieldston, “a private community,” and the rest of the Bronx. The taxi made its way into the walled neighborhood, a kingdom of country-style estates with white lawns, terraces of intricate stonework, gazebos standing watch over frozen ponds. They came to the address Coop had given the driver, where a shoveled path led upslope toward a stone mansion.
The entrance to the driveway was protected by a heavy arched gate. One of the gateposts featured a subtle aluminum plate with a perforated microphone, keypad, and small video screen.
Coop cleared his throat.
“Hello?” he said, and the screen popped to life, showing the face of a young Asian woman.
“Delivery?” she said.
“Oh,” said Coop. “Um, who are you?”
“I’m Sue,” said the woman, as if explaining something obvious.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Bellante,” said Coop.
“Are you expected?”
Coop shook his head.
“I’m sorry, if you don’t have an appointment…”
“Listen, I think she’d want to see me.” Coop gave the monitor his best attempt at a harmless grin. “I’m her son-in-law.”
Sue blinked.
“Just a moment,” she said, and the screen went dark.
Coop waited in front of the gate with his hands in his pockets, biting the inside of his cheek. Several minutes passed. Then came a welcoming chime from the intercom, and a mechanical click as the gate lock opened.
Coop walked up the driveway, tugging occasionally at his new clothes. He was still uncomfortable in the wool slacks, button-up shirt, and red cable-knit sweater. The outfit cost him nearly two hundred dollars, but it was an essential part of the act.
Even if Kay’s mother was in possession of the phone, Coop suspected she’d have reservations about giving it to him, and he had spent the morning considering the most persuasive approach.
Luckily, the Army had already schooled Coop in a range of dramatic roles. Each a different take on “soldierness,” and each associated, in Coop’s mind, with one of the four cultural polarities that defined military life. These were Texas, Miami, the Appalachians, and New York City. From Texas you got mass and spectacle, shiny tanks and marching bands, the love of bigness, and a whole system of clean-cut, patriotic mannerisms: calling all women “ma’am,” taking your hat off indoors, saluting whenever you heard the national anthem. If Texas was the game-time pageantry, Miami was the dark side of the sun. Here’s where you got your obsessive tanners, guys who lay out in the radioactive sun of Afghanistan and spent every free hour at the gym, using improvised weights made from rebar and coils of concertina wire. All the questionable mail-order nutritional supplements, the local hash scored from Pakistani truck drivers, the drunken volleyball tournaments back at Bragg. Miami was the party you went to after football practice. Next were the hill people, folks from states like Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia. This was where the Army got its wolf-dog mentality, the love of ditches and mud and raw meat and chewing tobacco, the homoerotic folk magic called “grab-ass,” and most important, the clannish divide between soldiers and civilians. And finally there was New York City, where you learned everything that wasn’t covered in field manuals: how to sham your way out of work details, how to get the best supplies, how to get promoted. “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying.” An entire world of winks and nods, trades and deals; the cool, clued-in practicality that every lifer learned to assume.
For the current situation, Miami and the Appalachians were out for obvious reasons, and Coop knew he couldn’t hope to pit his secondhand New York against a native of the tribe. To give himself a fighting chance against his mother-in-law, Coop knew he’d need his best Texas.
* * *
—
“You’ll follow me,” said Sue, as she opened the door with a practiced smile. Sue wore a long, intricate braid down her back, and Coop watched the braid sway as he followed her through the massive house. He remembered Kay telling him once that her mother maintained a special and intense partiality toward women with long hair. Once when Kay was a teenager she’d given herself a scissored crop, then dyed the spiky remainder with blue Manic Panic. “I was proud of myself,” Kay had told Coop. “It looked good. But my mother? That woman cri
ed like she’d lost a child.”
They came into a high-ceilinged foyer of polished wood. Overhead was a massive chandelier, its crystals throwing glittery light across the oriental rug. Sue cast a shaded glance toward Coop’s footwear. He realized his combat boots were dripping with mud and melted snow.
“Shit, sorry,” he said, and crouched to undo the laces. Sue ducked out and returned with a pair of calfskin slippers. Coop made a show of self-conscious goofiness while he struggled to put them on.
“So, do I tip you, or what?” said Coop. Sue remained expressionless.
They went up a flight of stairs, then down another hallway. Sue indicated a painting with a quick hand-wave, like she was throwing salt.
“This is the family estate, outside Gravina,” she said.
The painting showed a white farmhouse on flatlands of umber and sand, the landscape dotted by horned flecks of cattle and twisted trees. As she swished down the hallway Sue gestured at another. Twisted trees growing from a stony plateau.
“The Bellante olive plantation, in the lower Murge.”
Next Sue pointed to a chunk of red marble in a glass display case. To Coop it looked like a polished cross-cut of meat.
“From the Bellantes’ quarry,” Sue was saying, but Coop had stopped paying attention. They had passed several doors, and Coop wondered which of them might lead to Kay’s old bedroom. If they had her cellphone, where in this house would they be keeping it?
Emerging from the hallway they came into an unexpected burst of sunlight. Rivulets of water cascaded down a wall of bay windows, through which Coop saw a green cluster of fir trees. It seemed they had come the length of the mansion and were now overlooking the rear lawn, but Coop couldn’t see any sign of the river. Instead, as he peered closer, he was bewildered to see another set of windows looking back at him through the snow-draped foliage. Then Coop understood. The forest was actually a courtyard, all contained within the enormity of the mansion.
“Let me clear you a place,” said Sue. “Mrs. Bellante will be here shortly.”
A pair of armchairs were set against the windows, both of them surrounded by books. Coop had been so distracted by the view, he hadn’t noticed the many papers and old volumes spread around the room. Lying on one of the chair cushions was a large tome, its pages opened to a strange illustration: three she-devils, naked and flying in an entanglement of wings. Coop checked the spine. Dante’s Inferno, as illustrated by Gustave Doré.
“Those are the Dirae,” said a voice. Coop slapped the book shut and he turned to find Mrs. Bellante standing behind him. She was draped in a blue shawl, regarding Coop over a delicate pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
“Hello, ma’am,” said Coop, rising from the chair. He resisted the urge to come to attention, as he would for an officer. “You surprised me.”
“May I?” she said, and took the book from his hand. Her breath smelled of wine, and as she leaned forward the shawl momentarily drooped, briefly revealing the shadowed ridges of her sternum.
Without taking her eyes from the book Mrs. Bellante lowered herself into one of the chairs, licked her thumb, and began flipping through the pages. Must be pills, Coop thought, watching the methodical, slow-motion movement of her eyes. Pills and wine. No wonder Sue was trying to keep visitors away.
“You know I studied Classics at Fordham,” she said. “Before I met Katherine’s father.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Mrs. Bellante nodded to herself, still only absently aware of Coop’s presence. “Switching to law, now that was his idea,” she murmured, then suddenly brightened, finding the page.
“Here they are,” she said. “It’s Aeschylus. You know the story?”
Coop shook his head, wearing a polite smile. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected, this scholarly disorder. But he could adapt, he decided. Stay patient, wait for an opening to bring up the phone.
“The Oresteia was the first written account of a trial by jury,” Mrs. Bellante continued, as if reciting. “A murder trial.”
She curled herself more deeply into the chair, spreading the shawl across her legs, and Coop saw she wore a girlish pair of silk slippers.
“Who got killed?” said Coop.
Mrs. Bellante smiled, showing wine-red teeth.
“A mother,” she said. “By her son.”
“Did he do it?” said Coop.
“Oh yes. He’d already confessed. You see, Orestes—that’s the son—he was acting on orders from Apollo, one of the gods. Orestes’ mother had killed his father, Agamemnon, which itself was an act of revenge, because Agamemnon sacrificed Iphigenia—that’s Orestes’ sister…Iphigenia, you know that one? There was a movie with Irene Papas. No?”
Mrs. Bellante let it trail with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, it all started with the invasion of Troy.”
Coop nodded with bewilderment. He couldn’t tell if she was giving a lecture, mocking him, or genuinely trying to make conversation.
“So the demon ladies,” Coop ventured, pointing to the book. “Where do they come into play?”
“Yes, the Dirae,” Mrs. Bellante said. “Well, the Dirae are old gods. Spirits of vengeance from the underworld. They want to punish Orestes for murdering his mother, but Apollo, he claims that Orestes was merely delivering justice. Killing his father’s killer.”
“Who was also his mother?”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Bellante. “Very good. So you see, Mr. Cooper, the real matter of this dispute?”
Now she looked up at him, adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses. The wine-drunk abstraction was gone from her eyes, leaving a gray hardness. In his periphery Coop saw a tremble of movement, heard the light clap of wings as small birds flickered between the boughs of the fir trees.
Slowly he shook his head.
“The question is this,” said Mrs. Bellante, gently closing her illustrated Inferno. “Which do you think is of greater value: the contract of marriage? Or the bond of blood?”
Coop found himself looking away. He remembered Kay’s words. My mother will destroy you. Mrs. Bellante placed the Dante atop a stack of nearby books, then folded her hands.
“Now, Mr. Cooper, I’m hoping this is the part where you tell me what you expect to get from this meeting.”
Coop looked back at her. He felt the blood rushing up into his face, a wildfire rash of shame.
“And just so you know,” she continued, straightening herself, “you and I can speak in generalities, but Theo is best equipped to handle any detailed proceedings. He manages most of the family assets, these days. Including Katherine’s affairs.”
“Wait, wait,” said Coop. He held up a hand. “Are you talking about money?”
Mrs. Bellante smiled politely. She cocked her head. “Are you telling me you’re not here because you want something?”
“What I want—” Coop stopped himself, hearing the harshness of his voice. He clenched his teeth while Mrs. Bellante watched with an expression of casual, expectant professionalism. Her War Face, he decided. Probably earned over decades of bargaining and litigation, the inscrutable varieties of white-collar combat.
“The thing is, ma’am,” he began again, taking deep breaths through his nose, gathering the weapon of humility. “I realize you don’t much know me. And I know you never approved of me marrying your daughter—”
Mrs. Bellante opened her mouth, as if to object, but Coop preempted her with both hands, raised in peace.
“Ma’am, it’s all right. I understand. You were just looking out for her interests, right?”
Mrs. Bellante frowned.
“Look,” said Coop, “I don’t expect anything from you folks. And I know you’re busy people, so I truly appreciate you making time, especially with me showing up like this. As for the reason I’m here, well…I’m going back again soon. To Afghanistan. And then Iraq, pro
bably. And ma’am, you see, the thing is…”
Coop rubbed his hands together anxiously, looked at the floor. Summoning up a handful of Texas oh-gosh from the toilet of his heart.
“I just wanted a chance to know you folks better. Before I go back.”
Coop looked down in his lap. A shaky finish. He worried he’d overdone it.
A moment of stillness followed. Coop glanced up and saw Mrs. Bellante staring at the glassed-in woods.
“You know,” she said, her eyes caught in the distance, “Theo was working that day.”
Coop nodded sympathetically. He had no idea what she was talking about.
“He was in another building. Saw the planes hit, saw people jumping. He was very affected by that, I think.”
She used the edge of her shawl to dab at her mouth. Then her eyes popped wide. She stood up and went to the wall of shelves.
“Can I show you something? About our family?”
“I’d be honored, ma’am,” said Coop, and he scooted forward with real eagerness. Coop sensed he’d retaken some kind of advantage—Congratulations, an inner voice scolded him, you just bullshitted your grieving mother-in-law—but he wasn’t sure where to pivot from this new position. How to bring up the phone.
* * *
—
She came back to her chair with a sheaf of handwritten letters. “For some context, you must understand that Katherine’s grandfather was a fascist.”
Coop opened his mouth, not sure how to respond. Mrs. Bellante smiled. “Oh yes, a big family secret. But you know lots of people were, even in Italy, where they say it wasn’t about ideology. Anyway, in June of 1943 he writes to a colleague in Berlin. And mind you, the Axis is beginning to crumble—and here’s this man, a believer—and this is a translation, you understand, but he writes: ‘Even in defeat, we will have demonstrated the truth of our vision: it is only force that matters. Our destruction can only arrive at the hands of a greater power, a greater darkness more terrible than ourselves, which we have ushered into the world. And this will also be a victory.’ ”
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