by Tonya Hurley
Funny thing about video, he found himself considering, is that it often survives its subject. All that footage shot over the years, used in tribute clip packages of celebrities and politicians that are rerun ad nauseam upon their death. Old TV shows, old movies. They always seem so alive even though the subject has long since passed. Digital immortality. It was the same with this. It was the new stained-glass window. A visual meme, a shared reference point that ensured immortality and inspired eternal devotion. He regretted not being able to do Lucy justice with a tribute of her own. But as usual, Lucy made sure that she was the star of the show—tribute or not. The clamoring for her, the whispers, the gossip was greater than ever, but mostly favorable. Even he couldn’t have managed that on their best day together. Still, he watched.
Then, finally, the sound of Cecilia and Agnes bursting in, of sirens, and of sacrifice.
He wanted to turn his head as Lucy pulled at her eyes and her blood flowed freely, a deluge of crimson tears, soaking her outfit and the floor beneath her. He saw her crawl, determined, out of the room toward the robed men. He had seen her crawling on all fours before, after a particularly wild night at a club, but this time she wasn’t worshipping the porcelain god. It was a much higher power she was in touch with.
He stopped the tape and pressed eject. The cartridge popped halfway out of the machine and sat there. Taunting him. He was conflicted. This was so inflammatory, so raw, so ugly and so beautiful. Judging from the messages he’d received, Lucy’s followers knew what happened, how she died. But many did not. Seeing it would be even more powerful. More affecting. It needed to be seen.
“What should I do?” he asked himself out loud.
The answer suddenly came to him. He heard Agnes’s words in his mind. Lucy is dead. But Jesse was alive. He grabbed a USB cable and connected it to the port in his computer, then snapped the other end into the player.
“Seeing is believing,” he said, echoing Lucy’s favorite phrase.
Despite the guilt that buried him in an avalanche of regret, this was his chance to do something, to show the world who Lucy really was and who he believed her to be.
His chance to do something he had little experience doing.
The right thing.
3 “Are you sure you want to do this?” Hazel asked, handing Agnes a backpack and a jacket.
“I’m sure,” Agnes said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“It’s not going to be fun for you at school. Just saying.”
“Was it ever?”
The two girls walked slowly down the brownstone steps toward the small crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Agnes had on red lipstick, and her hair flowed freely over her mustard yellow coat, bouncing slightly as she descended the stoop. Greetings and compliments filled the air. Hazel stood a few steps behind, instinctively.
“Bless you, Agnes,” said one. “Pray for me,” said another. “So sorry about Lucy,” offered another. “She’s in a better place. With better people. Death is easy, life is hard,” she said, trying to give Agnes strength.
They reached out respectfully for her, to touch her hand or her coat. Agnes smiled gently and reached back to them. Those who did touch her crossed themselves, as if they’d been in the presence of a holy person.
Agnes and Hazel continued down the tree-lined street. The leaves and flower buds were popping in the morning sun. They walked and talked, both Agnes and Hazel keeping one eye over their respective shoulders.
“You really don’t have to do this. I’m sure our teachers would understand if you needed a few more days.”
“I’m okay, really,” Agnes insisted. “And I don’t want to spend any more time in that house with my mother than I have to.”
“I know. But people can be so cruel,” Hazel said, referencing her bruises with a look. “Sometimes worse.”
“Believe me, those kids are the least of my worries.” They reached the corner and crossed the street. A few houses down the block they were startled from their conversation by the sudden rev of a loud car engine starting up. An old beater that looked like it should have been scrapped long ago.
“Jesus!” Hazel shouted, covering her ears. “Get a muffler.”
“That’s a pretty tight spot.” Agnes frowned sympathetically. “Not sure they can make it.”
“Yeah, alternate side of the street parking is a bitch.”
They kept walking. The loud squeak of a steering wheel turning tightly one direction and then the other, the thud of bumpers bumping, and the dull rub of brakes against worn brake pads filled the quiet street. Freed eventually from its space, the car and driver began to roll slowly down the street toward the intersection.
Agnes and Hazel chatted obliviously, waiting for the light to change from red to green. The right of way secured, they stepped into the crosswalk. The car that had been creeping down the block suddenly came to a complete stop. Hazel squinted and could just barely make out the driver through the glare. It was a girl behind the wheel, wearing shades, her long hair spilling out of an army green ski cap. Her face was familiar to Hazel, but not in a good way.
“Agnes, come on.”
Agnes kept staring, as if she were playing a game of chicken with the driver.
The engine revved, tires spun and screeched, grabbing hold of the tarred road, and peeled out, straight for them, like an arrow shot from a bow. For a moment, Hazel and Agnes were frozen in place.
“Look out!” Hazel screamed, tugging Agnes by the strap of her backpack and pulling her to the other side of the street as the car sped by, missing them by inches.
They tumbled to the ground and felt the draft and breathed in the smell of engine exhaust from the car as it flew by them both. A shrill sound of laughter was audible over the growl of the engine.
“What the fuck?” Hazel screamed. “She was trying to kill us!”
They both brushed at their scraped palms and knees and stood up slowly.
“Do you know her?”
“I’m pretty sure that was one of the girls that attacked me,” Hazel said soberly.
“You saved my life, Hazel.”
“Well, if I would have left it up to you we’d both be going the morgue instead of school,” Hazel said, shaking her head. “You know you’re no match for a speeding car, right?”
There was both concern and anger in Hazel’s tone.
“Are you okay?” a passerby asked nervously.
“I couldn’t get the plate number,” another said apologetically.
“Don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No, please don’t, we’re fine,” Agnes said. “I’ve had enough of the hospital.”
“That was too close,” Hazel said, shaking.
“Yes, very close,” Agnes calmly agreed, steady as a rock.
Sister Dorothea exited the elevator at the top floor of Perpetual Help hospital, signed documents firmly in hand and ready for a fight. The receptionist smiled condescendingly as she approached. “Can I help you?” she asked perfunctorily, knowing full well the reason for the nun’s visit.
“Doctor Frey.”
“I’m sorry, he isn’t available.”
“Well, he’d better make himself available,” the sister said. “Now.”
“Perhaps I can help you,” the charge nurse said, approaching the desk.
“I’m here for the boy. Jude.” The nun stated, waving an envelope. “I have all the paperwork from the city agencies signed.”
She slid it through an opening in the glass and the nurse took it and opened it.
“Seems everything’s in order.”
“Yes, except for the release documents, which Doctor Frey needs to sign. And I’m not leaving here without them or Jude.”
“No need to get testy,” the nurse said. “I have the discharge right here.”
The nurse reached into the outbox for a clipboard with a single sheet. She handed it back through the opening and the nun scanned it. To her surprise, Frey’s signature was indeed at the bottom
. After weeks of back and forth, she could barely believe it. It seemed too easy. Too good to be true.
“Jude?” the nurse called out.
The boy was seated, fully dressed, shoes tied, coat zipped up, halfway down the hallway. Sister Dorothea was so intent on getting him out she’d barely noticed him sitting there.
Jude stood and walked slowly toward her, keeping his eye on the nurse suspiciously as she pressed the unlock buzzer and opened the door. The nun got down on one knee and hugged him tightly for a long time, then pulled away and looked him in the eye.
“Are you okay, son?”
Jude nodded yes.
They began to walk toward the elevator to leave when the nurse called out to him.
“Good luck, Jude. You’re on your own now.”
“No, not on his own,” the nun replied, placing her arm gently around his shoulder and stepping into the car. “Never on his own.”
13 It was like a dream.
Cecilia arrived and stepped from the limousine onto the red carpet, lit by the flashes of photographers and video cameras. She never would have guessed she was at an exclusive Hamptons estate rather than some swanky New York City club or party space. All she could think was that this was Lucy’s domain, or once had been, not hers.
As she heard her name called out by one paparazzo after another, she was frightened and thrilled. The crystal spikes on her shoulder harness gleamed and the strobing lights reflected off them, bouncing away into the night sky and mixing with the distant stars.
“Show us your hands,” they shouted.
She looked at them. They were scarred as always from the iron maiden’s spikes that had pierced them in the bone chapel of Precious Blood, but they were clean and dry. She rubbed them on her skirt and did as they asked, holding them high, only somewhat reluctantly, in front of her.
“Money shot,” one shouted.
She suddenly understood the seductiveness of it, of fame, and recalled her first meeting with Lucy in the church and how nasty she’d been. She felt like crying even in the midst of this entire spectacle organized for her benefit. But if she had Sebastian to thank for Lucy, and for who she had become, then for this party she only had Daniel Less to thank. How gracious was it, she thought, for him to open up his home for her listening party.
She was escorted through the black velvet drapes that separated the media vultures from the main entrance to the house and stepped into a different world. Not exactly through the looking glass, but it felt like it. All the noise and vying for attention faded into nothing and a paradise revealed itself. From the large black-and-white checkerboard marble-tiled foyer she could see the cedar trees, the brush, the sand, and the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows, as the sun seemed to set right on cue. Inscribed on the church-like lintel above them a phrase:
et in arcadia ego
(Even in Arcadia, there I am.)
Candles lined the banister of the long Victorian staircase and flickered from the vintage chandeliers above. If the red carpet outside was all Lucy, inside was all Agnes. Pure romance. Cecilia found herself amazed at how much she had of each of them inside her. How similar they were in so many ways, despite their obvious differences. Was that what Sebastian saw? she wondered.
She waded uncomfortably into the Gatsby-esque excess, her music wafting from the surround-sound system. A crush of servers dispersed through the crowd carrying hors d’oeuvres and crystal flutes of champagne on elaborate pewter trays. Was this a listening party, she wondered, or a society wedding? Not that she’d ever attended one or even seen such an event outside of the pages of the glossies her mother had kept in the bathroom magazine rack.
This was it. The fantasy. She walked slowly into the party and everywhere she turned was a famous face. Movie stars, directors, fashion designers, multiplatinum record producers, rock stars, hipster restaurateurs. And executive and Wall Street types she didn’t recognize but who gave themselves away with their expensive suits and salon grooming. Ironically, she seemed to be the least well-known person in the room, judging from the fact that no one had even given her a second glance so far.
Standing toward the back of the dining room, surrounded by members of the ruling class and some recently signed artists intent on kissing ass, was Daniel Less. He spotted her immediately.
“Cecilia!” he shouted through the din, making a move toward her, reaching out his hand. She walked toward him, unaccompanied, and took it.
Less turned to face the crowd. The entire room went silent without his having to ask. Some girls, dressed in skintight outfits, pursed their lips and shot jealous looks at her like darts.
“Flavor of the month,” one whispered just loud enough for her to hear.
“Yeah, arsenic,” another chimed in.
“Ladies and gentleman, our guest of honor, the reason we are gathered here, and the next household name for Tritone Records, Cecilia Trent.”
A round of polite applause broke out. It was not the shrieks of excitement and looks of awe she was used to receiving from the street punks and fans who attended her gigs or even on the street these days. But then this was not just a random crowd. These were the top of the heap. Saints and sinners were met with equal indifference.
Cecilia acknowledged them with a smile and a nod and took Less’s hand. He escorted her through the crowd to a dais at the back of the room. They sat.
“I can’t believe you put this together so quickly,” Cecilia whispered.
“No time like the present,” Less responded.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “It’s what I always imagined it would be like.”
“I thought so,” he replied with a smile. “Nothing less than the best for you.”
Cecilia smiled demurely at the pun. “Somehow I think you’ve probably used that line before.”
“I always prefer to strike while the iron is hot, Cecilia, and you, my dear, are hot.”
She wasn’t exactly sure if he was creeping on her or complimenting her. His flirtatiousness always seemed to have a subtext, if not an outright ulterior motive. Yet she didn’t discourage him. Either way, his cards and his money were on the table. He’d clearly made the investment in her and she was signed, sealed, and delivered. They were past the courting stage in their professional relationship. This was the real deal. In a world of put up or shut up, they’d both definitely put up.
“I’m not sure everyone here agrees.” She laughed.
“But they’re here, so who cares what they think?” Less parried.
“For you or for me?”
“Does that matter? The pictures will look the same in the newspapers either way.”
“My goal in life isn’t to be trending or break the internet,” Cecilia snarked, looking around the room at the famous faces judgmentally. “I’m not really interested in the attention, Daniel.”
The uncertain smirk, however, gave her away.
“Easy to say when you get so much of it,” Less answered, the smile leaving his face as he reached for the magnum of champagne nestled in the ice bucket before him and poured them each a glass. “What is your goal then?”
“The music. The message. I want to leave a legacy. Leave something behind that will never die.”
“Immortality, is that all?” Less asked. “Immortality is for dreamers, Cecilia. The present is for doers. In our business, it is only the present that counts.”
“Forever has to start somewhere, Daniel,” she said, tapping her black talon-shaped nails on her glass.
“Given the choice between now and later, I’ll always choose now. And so should you, my dear. The opportunity is now.”
Cecilia acknowledged the truth of his words with an embarrassed grin. He was persuasive, and besides, this was not a time for argument but for gratitude.
“An opportunity I couldn’t pass up,” she admitted, offering a toast. “Here’s to . . . now.”
He raised the flute and the chime of crystal touching crystal as the rim of her glass met his r
ang out clearly like a bell even through the idle chitchat that had all but obscured her music.
“Cheers,” he said. “To taking advantage of opportunities.”
They drank.
“Everybody thinks they’re in this business for a different reason, but it’s always the same reason—themselves.”
“Not everyone,” she said.
Less laughed out loud as the waiters continued to serve their table. “You really ought to eat something,” he insisted.
“Trying to fatten me up for the kill?” she asked sarcastically.
“The only place you need to worry about killing is on stage, Cecilia.”
“Cheers to that,” she added, emptying her glass.
She set the flute down and looked around. Waiters scurried, setting and removing utensils and plates as each course was served. Filling glasses with water and with wine. Almost invisible to the partiers. It occurred to Cecilia that she probably had more in common with them than the people they were serving. In the Bacchanalian commotion, as her music played, she suddenly found herself feeling dizzy. Maybe, she thought, it was the champagne, or just her anxiety about the entire event and the pressure she’d now put on herself. To be a commodity and not just a messenger. Or maybe Daniel was right, she needed to eat something.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.
”I’m not sure,” she said, searching for the bread bowl. “I think I need to put something in my stomach.”
“Of course.” Less waved his hand. Right on cue, a waiter approached, bearing a large silver platter. It was covered. “This is a special dish, prepared just for you.”
The closer the waiter drew to the table, the worse Cecilia felt. There was a growing tightness in her chest, rising upward into her neck. Her throat tightened and her skin began to crawl. The platter approached and she could see her reflection in the cover. Two hands were at her throat, grabbing at her, but not outside, from the inside, moving under her skin, like a kicking baby trying to escape a uterus. She gasped but could not make a sound.