He knows how to hurt his brother and does it. I don’t need to justify my lifestyle to you, Rufus says, mustache quivering. You don’t? Henry says. Then why do I have to justify mine to you? Their uncle is there, shaking his head, trying to calm them down, trying to stave off mayhem. But they’re all way too far gone for that.
Later, nobody will remember how Jackie’s pulled into the fight. Maybe it’s Rufus who does it, or Henry, or Muriel. But before anyone knows it, Muriel is describing, in lurid detail, the state of Jackie’s apartment in Tremont. You should see the way she’s living, she says. You should see it. It smells like a garbage dump; any food that comes in there spoils. There is laundry everywhere. Underwear in the toilet. There’s oil paint everywhere, some on a few half-finished canvases, of churches covered in soot and fire. But most of it’s on the floor, on the furniture. There’s some on the ceiling, on the sheets of her bed. A horde of cats; the last time Muriel visited, one of them was dead and Jackie had it in a shoebox under the coffee table, where it was starting to reek. Jackie yelled and moaned when Muriel told her she had to throw it away. And then there were the dirty dishes, piled in the sink, across the counter, in stacks on the floor. When they get dirty, I just buy new ones, Jackie told Muriel, though there was no evidence of that. Swarms of flies, hordes of maggots, ants, roaches. The kitchen was revolting.
“She can’t live by herself anymore,” Muriel says.
“Yes I can! I’m an adult! And I’m right here! Stop talking about me like I’m not right here! Like I’m insane!” Jackie says.
Henry knows he shouldn’t say what he says next, but to him, it’s right across the plate. What the fuck, he figures. This is the night where we’re all saying the things we shouldn’t say. Might as well say them all.
“But you are insane, Jackie,” he says. “Batshit crazy. You should be in an institution.”
And Jackie lets out a wail the likes of which no one in the room has ever heard. It’s inhuman, a sound stripped of sense. The sound they imagine their mother might have made, had she been alive to see their father die. Full of heartbreak and rage, at herself and him. That she could have loved a man like that so much, that she let herself do it. That he could have let her, after everything he did, everything he did to them.
It’s almost one in the morning by the time they shout themselves out. They all go to bed, try to sleep, get up after they fail. Sylvie makes them eggs and sausage as if she were a short-order cook. They eat without looking at each other, speak just enough to move the salt, pepper, and coffee around the table. Then Henry goes upstairs to take a shower. Through the bathroom window he can see Sylvie and Rufus walking side by side in the garden, their hands behind their backs. Now and again Sylvie crouches down and Rufus crouches too. She’s showing him plants, the things she’s been growing. They’re out there for a long time, and it occurs to Henry that maybe Sylvie’s saying goodbye to this place, taking the farewell tour, and there in the bathroom, he feels dirty for watching. Closes the curtains and starts the water. He’s in there a long time, takes even longer to dress. His mind working the problem over and over, trying to see a new way into it, because he can’t see any way out.
When he comes back into the dining room, they’re seated almost like they were before; Muriel tells him before he has a chance to see it for himself.
“Rufus left,” she says.
“What?”
“Yup. Gone out to the airport.”
“When did he leave?”
“Just five minutes ago.”
It’s too much. He almost laughs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“He didn’t say goodbye to me either,” Muriel says. “But here’s this.” She hands him an envelope, a letter. To Henry, from his brother. Signing over, in almost perfect legalese, his portion of his inheritance, for Henry to execute, with the intention that half is to go to Sylvie, so that she can keep the house; the other half is to go toward Jackie’s care. I trust this will resolve the problem, the letter’s final sentence says, that our father’s unjust equality created.
You bastard, is all Henry can think. Detests himself for not being grateful, or grateful enough. He can’t tell the difference yet. Can’t tell how much is about Rufus and how much about their father. He sees his brother only once in the next decade, and then never again. But after Sylvie’s wedding, when he knows Rufus has a son, he keeps sending them money, as often as he can, his own money on top of the trust fund disbursements; after a while, just his own money. It’s all for you and your boy, he writes, and thinks to himself but doesn’t write: He shouldn’t be cheated by your financial drama. Rufus is gracious and writes back, thankful for the money. Always takes it. But he never tells Henry what he’s doing with it. And he never tells Henry when he’s moving, or why. A couple years in, Henry risks an annoyed note—just tell me when you’re switching cities so I know where to wire, is that so hard?—and Rufus almost stops communicating altogether. Months go by where Henry’s money just piles up, waiting to be collected, and Henry worries, then, that something’s happened to them both, to Rufus and his boy. He starts skimming the international section of The New York Times for news of coups, wars, riots in Africa. Things to feed his anxiety. Then the money disappears from the account with a two-word reply, thanks, Rufus, and Henry sleeps better. Though he doesn’t know how to get Wyatt Earp to say more, either. Or how to get him back.
It’s been like that for years, now, Sylvie thinks. It’s 1995 again, and Peter’s been gone for hours; the afternoon’s turning into evening, but the memories of 1966 are brighter than ever. The family was a handful of seeds that night, Sylvie thinks, tossed into a hurricane that howled through the house. Now Henry and Rufus are far away. All the girls still in town, but they almost never see each other. And Jackie’s been put away for so long now, she might not know who she is anymore, let alone them.
But all their children. If Sylvie concentrates hard enough she can almost feel it, the way the past is blowing them all in again, forcing them to come together. The shape of the thing is there, in her head. The storm is still out there, maybe worse than ever, but she understands that maybe, if she closes the right doors, opens the right windows, they might all whirl in again, roll across the floor, then wake up, blinking and smiling, as if they’ve come out of a long dream. She can hear her father spit then—people always do what they want, Sylvie, never forget that—and she knows, she does. There’s no telling what any of them will do. But she can begin to move them all, and all she has to do is make a couple calls. Because she knows, she knows, what happened to Curly. And she knows what she has to do to fix things.
Kosookyy sounds groggy on the other end of the phone. She says his real name, and at once he’s clear.
“Sylvie,” he says. “It’s late.”
“I know. I’m pulling out my investments, Kosookyy. As soon as you can do it. And I’ll need it in cash. Something portable and liquid that the FBI can’t also trace, at least not right away.”
There’s a long sigh. Then: “You’re sure.”
“Yes. I’m liquidating everything. Cutting it loose.”
“Everything? That’s a lot of money you’re going to end up with.”
“I’m aware of that. But there won’t be too much of it left when I’m done.”
“What are you planning on doing?”
“I’m going to bring down the Wolf.”
“Because of Petey.”
“That’s right. Petey and the rest of my family.”
“You’re crazy,” he says.
She says his real name again. “I have the money.”
“Your father would disapprove,” Kosookyy says.
“My father’s been dead for almost thirty years. Things have changed since then.”
“That’s weak, Sylvie. Your father would understand today better than either of us.”
“So what. He’s still dead.”
“A lot of them deserve it.”
“A lot of them don’t,” Kosookyy says.
“Name one,” Sylvie says.
“How about me?”
“You think you’re one of the good guys, now?”
“Don’t be so cold. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Duck and cover. It’s all coming down. And besides, I think I can rig it so they don’t touch you.”
“You think you can. What if you’re wrong?”
“It’s a calculated risk,” Sylvie says.
“You’re not being fair,” Kosookyy says.
Sylvie laughs. “Fair? You know what my father would say to that.”
Kosookyy sighs again. “Yeah, I know. But he would never do what you’re doing. He’d just let his grandson hang.”
“Two grandsons?”
“Without thinking twice.”
“Like I said. I’m not him.”
“One more thing,” Kosookyy says. “I’ll be amazed if you live through it yourself.”
“Watch me,” Sylvie says.
Now Kosookyy laughs. “That’s your father talking.”
“You better believe it.”
“Sylvie?”
“What.”
“I was wrong just now. Maybe he’d be proud of you.”
“I think you were right the first time,” Sylvie says. “He’d say I was being a dumb bitch. But I never liked him much anyway.”
“Good night, Sylvie.”
“Get out of here, now, okay? Lie low for a while?”
“Oh, honey,” Kosookyy says. “Those days are over. I got nowhere else to be than where I am. Just do it already, all right? I’ll take care of me and mine.”
“All right. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Kosookyy hangs up. Sylvie doesn’t put down the phone. She dials again. The voice on the other end is thick with a Russian accent.
“Feodor,” she says. “It’s the White Lady.”
“Good evening. Are you calling about your investment?”
“Yes. I’m pulling it out. In cash.”
“I see.”
“Though not all of it. I want you to keep a sizeable amount.”
“For what?”
“To kill the Wolf.”
Feodor laughs.
“I’m serious,” Sylvie says.
“You invest with him, too, don’t you?” Feodor says. “I’ve always admired that about you, the way you don’t take sides. Why are you taking one now?”
“It’s not in your interest to know, is it?”
“Well, we aren’t interested in going after the Wolf, then,” Feodor says.
“How much would I have to pay you to become interested?”
“A much larger percentage of your investment than you would be comfortable with.”
“How much?”
He gives her the number.
“Done,” she says. “And I’ll be able to make the job easier for you. Much easier.”
“How.”
“That’s my business.”
There’s a long breath on the other end of the phone. “You are serious.”
“I’m serious.”
“When do you want this done?”
“You’ll know when. I’ll give you everything you need. Also, I have a message—no, a series of messages—that I want you to help me deliver to his organization.”
“I will make the calls. But I have to warn you, whatever you may be planning, there is no way to make it clean. You will need plans. For you and your family.”
“I have plans,” Sylvie says.
“I hope so, for their sakes,” Feodor says.
“So we have an understanding?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll talk again soon. And Feodor, after this is done, we have no more ties between us, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll make no more trouble for you.”
“Nor I for you. Unless you give me a reason.”
“Understood.”
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, White Lady.”
“And you, Feodor. It’s morning there now, yes? Have a good day.”
“And you have a good night.”
She looks at the clock. It’s late. The day after tomorrow I’ll talk to the FBI, she thinks. She goes out on the patio. It’s already dark, colder than she thought it would be. The lawn runs away, fast, down to the lake she can’t see, though there are lights on it, boats moving across the water. Curly’s down there somewhere. It doesn’t matter whether they find him or not. She knows the police and the FBI have always had half the story, always knew they were looking at pieces of a scattered body. They’d found fingers in a field. A leg. A toe. All she has to do is show them where the rest of it is. Where to go, around this town, everywhere between here and Moldova.
She thinks, then, about the bonds of flesh and blood that lead back to her father, her father and the people who are still living with his ghost. We’re ready, Sylvie thinks, at last we can get out and be free of him, him and all he did. But what will she do then? It’s a trait Sylvie inherited from her father, to stay practical, to not think too hard about the bigger questions that lurk behind the choices she makes. From what Sylvie can remember, Peter Henry Hightower was a master at it; in all her years with him, she never saw him flinch, or take back a decision. We all play the hand we’re dealt, he used to say. We all do what we can with what we have, and we can’t be blamed for it. But Sylvie’s fifty-seven now, only ten years younger than her father was when he died, and it’s hard for her not to think about what his life was like then: his financial empire stagnating, his family in ruins. You never said anything, Dad, but you must have started thinking about your legacy, she thinks. How things might have been different. She’s started to think that for Peter Henry Hightower, his ambitions, strategy, and practicality were the walls of a fortress. All the carnage, the people he hurt and killed—the things that would force him to come to terms with the things he did—lay on the field beyond, and if he ever looked outside, he never let on.
Sylvie has lived inside the walls her father built all her life. Now her hand is on the gate and she’s about to open it. She doesn’t know what she’ll see, but she can picture it. The staggering multitudes, the poor, the destitute, the starving, the people who weren’t given their share so that two generations of Hightowers could draw their profits. Among them, the bodies of the dead. Two of them are old and mummified: a man in a suit with his throat slit, a yellow handkerchief dangling from his pocket; a mobster’s son. But there are piles of fresh corpses, all Sylvie’s doing. Raped to death and shot in the face. Slit down the middle and emptied out. No livers, no kidneys, no hearts. No eyes. And there are predators out there, the animals of commerce and its consequences, feasting on the living and the dead. If they find Sylvie, she knows, they’ll rip her to pieces. After that, the only difference between her and the rest of them will be that she’ll have deserved it.
Part 2
1896–1966
Chapter 7
So you’re starting to see the blood, the pieces all around, of the body of the truth. There’s no other way to tell you what happened without lying to you. But every body has a spine; every story has a line. The spine of the Hightowers curls back decades, from 1995 to the end of the last century, and you need to see it, too, to know how the pieces used to fit together.
Petro Garko is born in 1899 in a house in Tremont, the neighborhood on the west bank of the Cuyahoga River, with a midwife in attendance; Galina, his mother, cleans up after the birth herself the next day. It’s June, just in time for the streetcar strike, the riots and smoking wreckage of machine
ry, the National Guard patrolling the city. That’s Cleveland all over, what America looks like when it’s angry. There’s a small crowd of their friends and neighbors in the church when Petro’s baptized, dressed in their best while Father Tarnawsky, of St. Peter and Paul’s Catholic Church, traces the cross on the baby’s forehead with oil. A larger crowd is waiting back at the house. Mykhaylo, Petro’s father, gives each man a shot of whiskey and a cigar as a favor, and there’s more where that came from. There’s beer, too, that the guy on the corner made in his basement and rolled down the street in a dark barrel. Homemade root beer for the kids. The musicians tear through all the songs they know the people want to hear, and couples whirl in lines and circles, the music whips them faster and faster, and just when it can’t get any more frantic, the musicians go on strike, won’t play another note until someone stuffs a five-dollar bill into the bass’s F-hole. Some of the guests complain, say it wasn’t part of the deal, but they pay anyway, because nobody wants the party to stop. This happens a dozen times, and three days later, when the guests at last can’t drink any more and are asleep on the steps outside, the band packs up and goes around the corner. Once they’re out of sight, the bandleader puts his violin down, opens a trapdoor on the bass’s back, and divides up the earnings in the middle of the dusty street. By then, two of the men Mykhaylo works with in the mill are lying in the grass in the backyard with bloody faces; they started a fight with each other for a reason neither of them can remember later. It must have been the booze, the godparents say. It wasn’t the best. The godparents say they’ll do everything they can to protect the boy, and they have the best intentions at the time. But they end up moving out of Tremont within the year, and Galina never hears from them again.
In 1912, Mykhaylo, who loved to dance, who got a kiss from Galina the first night they met in a social hall, after he spun her across the floor, dies in an accident at the mill. You can see it in the insurance claims for the Ruthenian National Union of America, soon to be called the Ukrainian National Association. Mykhaylo was killed by a train—that word, train, spelled out in Cyrillic on the form, but in phonetic English, those small but important signs of how the Ukrainians in America are becoming something else—down in the Flats, in the Cuyahoga’s floodplain, in the black soot of a dozen steel mills and crisscrossing rails. Nobody knows how it happened. Nobody ever seems to know how any of these things happen anywhere: the deaths in the mines in Pennsylvania, the lost eyes, a man crushed in an elevator shaft. But it happens. One minute Mykhaylo’s heading home from his shift, out of the river valley. Maybe he doesn’t realize quite where he is, or maybe he doesn’t hear a signal he’s supposed to. Maybe there isn’t any signal. The next minute, he’s under the wheels, and a union representative is helping the grieving Galina make funeral arrangements, cashing out the policy she has on her husband. Trying hard not to look too much at the two sons. Petro is thirteen then. His brother Stefan is nine.
The Family Hightower Page 14