by Steven Clark
Saul nodded, and Antje continued.
“I believe all dead deserve the right to rest in their homeland. No more drama. Only peace.”
Saul nodded. “No argument there.”
We ate in silence. The obvious drama would have been the German-Jewish thing, but mine was Pierce leaving in three days, putting an ocean between us. Jama was talking to Solange at the studio. We smiled as Yul leaped up, snatched a piece of sausage and sped off to the corner to devour it. Antje sunk against Pierce.
“Pierce tells me St. Louis is … dramatic. It is a city of … mystical?”
“Psychic,” said Pierce, “psychic power.”
I blinked, happy to snap out of my introspection. “Oh, let’s not get into that. You raved about that in middle school.”
“It’s the Arch,” Pierce explained to Saul, almost ignoring me, “it’s like a wishbone. You know. Timeless.”
“Okay,” Saul said, “rap on. I like the wishbone bit, even though the Arch sucks.”
“Sucks?” smiled Antje.
“I have issues with it. Pierce?”
“Okay,” Pierce said, “the final two sections of the Arch at the top keep it together. If they fell off, the whole thing would collapse. It’s kind of sacred. A priest and rabbi blessed it. It’s like the Great Pyramid. Its apex is missing, because the prophet Zechariah said the headstone of the pyramid represents the second coming of Christ. When he returns, the apex will be placed in position.”
Wild laughter came from Saul. “What is this shit? Da Vinci Code on the Mississippi?”
I leaned back. “The kid and I rapped Nostradamus and pyramids. He did esoterica while other kids did pot.”
“Well,” Pierce shrugged, “St. Louis lies on the ninetieth parallel on the Mississippi. A great source of psychic power. We probably get that from Cahokia. You know, the mounds were said to be sources of magic.”
Saul grinned. “What are we, talk radio?”
“Some guy mentioned the Arch being predicted. In Zerubbabel.”
“Bible stuff?” Saul laughed. “Psychic power? Talk radio? Okay, now I’m curious.” He pointed to me. “You. Angel. Priestess of the house. A Bible, sil vous plais. Mach schnell.”
I rummaged through the book cases for Aunt Mary’s old Bible, rustling the pages to Zechariah, offering it to Saul. Jama cursed about the goddamned pitch to Lionsgate.
“What?” Saul frowned. “You want me to read it?”
“You’ve got the voice.”
“Oh, the voice. You want drama. Shall I do Heston or Eli Wallach? My Eli Wallach is a gas.”
Antje frowned. “A ‘gas’?”
“I restore old buildings,” Saul explained as he leafed through the Bible, “even my slang is rehabbed. Which voice?”
“Eli Wallach!” Pierce and I chorused.
“Disney?” exclaimed Jama on the phone, “don’t even get me started on fucking Disney. They’d rape Lallah Rookh! Someone from Disney’s there? Well, damn it, call him over.”
With much ceremony, Saul held up the Bible and pretended to sweep back a mane of Prophet’s hair. His performance would have earned him a Kretschmar Ham. “Who art thou, o great monument? Before Zerubbabel thou shalt become a plain: and he shall bring forth a headstone thereof with shouting, crying, Grace, grace unto it.”
Saul closed the Bible undramatically. Silence as we looked at each other. Even Yul perched on the couch and, staring, swished his tail.
“This predicts the Arch, huh?”
Pierce’s eyes sparkled. “Or the pyramids. It’s the usual portentous, generic prophesy.”
Saul laid the Bible down. “Speaking as a Jew, since the Old Testament is our gig, I’d say you’re stretching it.”
Antje stroked Yul as I rose for a jug of wine. “So, the Arch is sacred and mystical. I shall see it, then. Then read the sacred book of Tom and his Glass Menagerie. I have eaten the sacred pizza of St. Louis to prepare me, made with the holy Provel of the Midwest. Have we the holy drink?”
Glasses filled as I poured. “What holy drink?”
Antje was triumphant. “As Pierce told me. The sacred Budweiser.” She pronounced it German-style. Bood-vy-zer.
Saul clucked and waved his hand. “Aw, cut it out. Let’s go back to movies.”
That had been a good night. All of us together, and I could at least rest easy that one of my kids was stable. Antje was good for Pierce, and now he was going to be a father. Meanwhile, Jama …
I imagine a camera running at fast speed. It views the baby bump of land on the Mississippi ages before it becomes St. Louis. Then looking across and upriver, mounds quickly rise, and just as quickly are abandoned. Cahokia a burp in history. More nothing. Then, St. Louis grows from cabins to houses. The settlement pollinates across woods and fields, expanding the city in our continual fast forward. Neighborhoods spread like a cancer. Think of bleeding sap from acres of felled trees; full, rich earth, and its musty smell paved over.
Our rushing camera shows riverboats flocking to the levee like ducks feeding at a pond, but the boats fade quicker than Cahokia as railroads and factories elbow their way in, clouding the city in a browning of industry. Suburbs replicate the cancer, but faster as they web the countryside. The Arch scales to the sky in jittery camera speed. Freeways slice and carve. St. Louis is indeed a pizza. Then industry rusts out and leaves. Just past two hundred years. Not even a blink. And lest we forget, John G. Priest, who helped form the Mysterious Organization of Veiled Prophets in 1878, claimed the very first Veiled Prophet was crowned in 10,842 B.C., 294 years before the world was even created, according to some. New York, eat your heart out.
Now, what remains? What is remembered?
Memories of Antje and Pierce, mingled with my wanting him closer to home. Hearing them that night in the bedroom sighing, whispering in German. Heavy breathing as they couple, knowing he is one with her, imagining that is the night he makes her belly swell with my grandchild. Jama almost ignoring us as she wheels and deals, and two months later she will rob me. Memories of time that makes children grow and leave. This is my history. The only one my heart feels.
I remember a television program I watched, one of what will happen to cities when man goes poof! After a century or two, streets cave in. Unchecked, water seeps into high-rises and sinks them, floor by floor. Water, ever destructive. Lacking support, walls crash onto empty streets below choked with vegetation and wild, block-sized webs of creeping undergrowth.
The stainless steel of the Gateway Arch will slowly corrode from within of structural arthritis on its rib. Rust that already eats at its interior carbon steel, unchecked if no men are there to nurse it so it gleams, free of scabrous decay.
First drop the two top pieces Pierce spoke of, the ones blessed by holy men, recalled in prophesy and night talk of the airwaves. The Arch, now two gaunt ribs on the bank of the Mississippi. On some silent day they loosen and crash below.
Deer will eventually wander up and sniff the broken chunks as they munch stalks of wild grass where a city once began. Crows will perch on the rusted sides before they wing to the straight, crumbling man-mountains to the West, their cries harsh and chattering, like the crows Pierre told me guard the temples of Gesshoji, his holy place in Japan. Up the river, the mounds of Cahokia won’t be so lonely anymore, nor so mysterious. Another civilization collapsed. There’s room for everyone.
Amidst all of this rumination, there is my life, my children, my brush with cancer that will surely return. Life is watching death go past, the stains of the pizza carton outlasting the squares. Only outlines remain.
On the telephone, Rasheed was polite as any outsourcing drone calling from New Delhi. I frowned as I approached St. Louis Cathedral. For a Muslim, it seemed an odd choice for a rendezvous.
The cathedral’s emerald green dome is the Central West End’s crown, an imitation of the Hagia Sophia with two Gothic towers appended to its front. I heaved open thick wooden doors designed to keep out time, and became immersed in the cathe
dral’s real glory, mosaics that coat its interior like cosmic fish scales. Above me floated a sea of gold squares, looking like the inside of God’s skull.
The mosaics twinkled; discontinuous space where atoms reassemble to depict saints, our Savior, the Virgin, and vignettes from St. Louis’s Catholic history. My nose tingled at the chill of cool air, and in the dim, ethereal light, I could see five kneeling parishioners seeded through waves of empty pews. Echoes from a tour at the right of the altar wafted throughout. Rasheed sat in a pew, wearing a dark coat as his brown eyes studied the Apocalypse.
I slid beside him. He kept looking up. A sky with fingers of sun lit up the amber windows, making the pendentives below glitter.
“Why here?”
Rasheed sighed at the baldachin, the dome under the sanctuary shimmering with bright blue mosaics. “When I was in London, drug dealers did their commerce in churches. Because they were so empty.”
“We could have had coffee somewhere.”
“This is not a friendly chat, Mrs. Bridger.”
“How true.” I studied the apostles, then took a deep breath. The tour group echoed to our right. “I know you’re Al-Qaeda.” Rasheed said nothing. “My source saw you in Baghdad.”
“And?”
“You’re a terrorist.”
“So?”
This was a day of my urgencies meeting indifference. “You’re a wanted man and in no condition to threaten my daughter. By the way, she says it’s eighty thousand.”
“Your daughter is a liar. As you well know.”
I certainly knew. “I could tell the FBI about you.”
Nothing. Rasheed kept looking up. “That one is an angel. Michael? Gabriel?”
I looked at both angels, their wings the color of blue-jays; brilliant glittering robes their raiment. “Neither. They represent the Old and New Testament. The one with the blindfold—”
“The Old Testament?”
I nodded.
“Yes, Mrs. Bridger, blindfolded because Jesus has not revealed himself. We have angels, too. Belief in them is one of the six pillars of wisdom. Our faith is not that far from yours. That will make it easier when America accepts Islam.”
“Let’s stay on square one. “If you don’t leave this country, I’ll go to the authorities.”
Rasheed almost smiled as he finally looked at me. “I admire the research you have put into this little … confrontation, to threaten me and save the honor of your family. It is true I have been a soldier of God. In Baghdad, I sent four of your GIs to hell. I also set a bridge explosion that killed two and cost another his legs. There are other such examples of my heroism, but why go on? Go, tell your authorities I am here.” His smile was feline and full. “They already know.”
“I doubt that.”
“Oh, but they do. Your FBI knows I am here to collect a debt. Jama is a little fish unworthy of their concern.”
“Don’t be so cocky, buster.” I turned and frowned. It’s wrong to be snide in a cathedral. Rasheed admired the mosaics as he spoke.
“My sheik lends to your banks. He lets your air force fly over his airspace to do the bidding of Jews and capitalists.” His lips curved up, matching the dome. “And do not forget the oil. Your country needs his friendship in a region where your imperialism is despised. Your daughter means nothing to your government.”
“I’ll go to my Congressman. I know him rather well.”
Rasheed nodded. “Yes, but have you enough money to bribe him into activity? No, Mrs. Bridger. Jama will pay her debt. My sheik will not be made a fool.”
Cameras clicked. We turned. The tour group admired the grotto of Mary.
“Pictures,” Rasheed whispered, “collecting small squares of memory. How minute compared to God.” His nose sniffed. “What is that smell? Some kind of cheese?”
I opened my purse. “It’s pizza. Imo’s. Care for some?”
Whole paragraphs could have described his wary expression. I held the first square up, the tissue paper it was wrapped in making dark spots.
“This one hasn’t any sausage. Just veggies and cheese. Not exactly halal, but if my Jewish boyfriend can scarf it, why not you?”
Rasheed took the slice and studied it like Hamlet did Yorick’s skull.
“Yes,” he nodded. “‘The square beyond compare.’” Said with too much gravity, as if the slogan wore a tux.
“You know about Imo’s?”
“I have studied your people. Your city.”
We rose and approached the doors as the tour group looked up at the mural of the Sisters of the Good Shepherd. A ring of children play around the nun, one of the girls holding a Raggedy Andy doll.
“They enjoy the nun?” asked Rasheed.
“No. The Raggedy Andy doll. People love that. Tourists can’t get enough of it. I had a Raggedy Ann.”
Rasheed’s smile was slow, an afternoon shadow across a sundial. “Yes. To remember childhood innocence. It is sad we cannot discuss God. I would like to, but first there is business. You have less than a month.”
“Less then,” I echoed. Somewhere beyond the door, traffic whispered like when Mom—Lena May Sikes, my faux mom—blew in my ear, making me squeal. “I’m glad you like the cathedral. I can see it relaxes you.”
“It does,” Rasheed nodded. “The peaceful world of a contemplative and a dignified structure. Meant to last for ages. I admire it.” His smile barely rose. “Someday, it will make a beautiful mosque.”
He walked out the door, beginning to eat the pizza I gave him. By a shrine, red candles waved like seismograph needles.
20
Explaining the Ways of Man to God
Saul’s Hyundai chugged along Grand. I stared out the window at the usual dose of St. Louis morbid. “I can’t believe it.”
He nodded. “Believe it. Barrett checked over at FBI. At the penis.”
Meaning the new federal courts building, a high rise called “The Pink Penis” due to its rounded phallic crown. On the outside, floor after floor of pillars are meant to remind us of classical temples, but they look like jail cells. Perhaps a symbol of what the federal government does best to its citizenry.
“Rasheed is a visitor in good standing. State said leave him alone, so the feds are sitting on it.”
My arms folded tighter. “A terrorist.”
“The sheik is a pal, we need the oil and airspace, so in the interests of the state, Jama is flushable.”
My sigh made a spot of fog on the window. Saul tried to be good-natured. “Look. Jama always lands on her feet.”
“That cliche may have reached its shelf life.” I stared at the white steeple of St. Alphonsus Liquori, the ‘Rock’ of St. Louis.
Saul continued. “Even Faust had an escape clause. Now, if only the mansion had one. But, I fear it’s a waste of time. Vess Moot’s in with Pierre. Wrecking the mansion is his baby.”
The Other side of the Rock was Fifth district, where police rookies are filtered into the ghetto, although to hear cops in the ER tell it, it’s less filtering than being dumped onto Omaha Beach.
“True,” I said to a glum Saul, “but I want to talk to him. Get the skinny from Vess face to face. I was his nurse. We kind of rapped.”
“Okay,” Saul said, “and I’ll check with Margot’s attorney. He’s working with me to declare the mansion a historical landmark. I can see you meeting with Vess, but why a rematch with Dan Smatters?”
“See if he has a price or a conscience. Then we’ll meet the mayor.” I looked out to the street. “Is there anything else Barrett’s found out about Lucas? Something that may tie in?”
“What, the drug use? He ran with the usual unsavory crowd. There may be something.”
“Go on.”
Saul flipped open a small notepad. “The night of the VP ball. That fiasco in ’72. We know Lucas wasn’t there. He was seen in a neighborhood north of here. There was a shooting that night.”
“A shooting? What? Robbery? Drug deal gone bad? Did Lucas shoot someone?�
�
“No, but a dealer. A Marc Anthony Hollis. Disappeared that night. Vanished.”
“Murder?”
“Vanished. Someone made Lucas a block away, speeding back to the mansion, but it’s cold. No link. No reason to see a connection, but I’m asking Barrett to dig into the files.”
It had a sidebar feel to it, but if street mayhem involved Lucas, it was getting my interest, and I could tell Saul’s as well. I touched my head and closed my eyes. Saul’s hand touched my shoulder.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Just a headache. I’ve been getting them since Jama’s return. Time to see Vess.”
I got out of the car, clutched the collar of my cape as Saul drove off. I was a block away from St. Louis U. It was between classes, so the area was bustling with students. Brooding overhead was the Continental Building. Built in the twenties, its twenty-two stories the Goliath of the neighborhood, a ceramic slab of skyscraper Gothic topped by a mast to secure visiting airships, which was very state of the art then. Airships docking overhead, ready to unload travelers just in time to catch a show at the neighboring Fox seemed to make sense when Lindbergh was the Jazz Age Daedalus. The top beacon flashes blue and red lights after dark. Why? To warn of an approaching airship? St. Louisans never get around to changing things. A part of our psyche still waits for the Hindenburg to dock. Maybe the lights show we’re not sure if we’re a red or blue state. Missourians and schizophrenia. The Desouche mansion lay two blocks north.
I entered the Continental. It’s been abandoned for years, except for one office whose shiny brass doors I brushed past.
The headquarters of Vesuvius Moot’s Coalition for Urban Transformation was spacious and baroque. Posters of Josephine Baker and Ella Barnes, local girls of color who made good, lit up the gilt and marble. The secretary greeted me like warm broth. Above her desk a poster exuded and warned: A CUT of the Action: Now!
When I was ushered into his office, Vess nodded to me as he kept spieling on the telephone. He’d changed his stripes through the years. From a leopard sleek foot soldier of CORE desegregating lunch counters to a defiant Black Panther toting guns inside a church service, Vess made a name for himself. He demanded the Veiled Prophet Ball be abolished. A month later, he included the white race. Years later, he went collar and tie to fight against the city’s closing Homer G. Phillips hospital, the major hospital on the North side. I remember buses and lamp posts plastered with stickers, thick as cicadas when they returned: Save Homer G! To the black community, it was their hospital, and Vess stoked resentment over its closing.