And I couldn’t not call him.
When I finally did call, he was wary, laying out an elaborate plan for our meeting. He sent me to a couple of false start locations and when we finally met in a Georgetown nightclub, I stood close enough to smell the expensive cologne that barely masked his fear. We had a lot of gin and he finally asked me back to his apartment. We’ve been meeting up to have increasingly violent sex ever since.
In Peter’s mind, the periodic black eyes, stitches, and sprained arms have come to mean we’re dating, that we’re in a relationship. So I shouldn’t be surprised that a couple of weeks ago when I headed out for one of my performances, he followed.
I arrived at the Homeland Security complex and walked the length of the block. The lawn was smaller than I expected and the common wisdom, which held that the lawn was heavily mined, was correct. I could feel them humming in the ground, like a horde of hibernating insects. If I was careful, I could use the power of the exploding mines to accelerate my own explosive force and substantially broaden the swathe of destruction. I sat at a bus stop across the street for a while communing with the mines as I watched the flow of buses and pedestrians in and out of the main gate. When I finally crossed the street and walked in the direction of the guard house, I did not see Peter coming down the block.
As I approached, one of the sentries raised his gun and several things happened at once. From behind, I heard Peter say, “What the hell are you doing?” The other sentry raised his gun. I felt Peter’s hand on my shoulder as my outer layer of clothes burned away. My costume emerged, shimmering in the sunlight. The words erupted from my chest—The meek shall inherit!—and people began to scatter. Before Peter could remove his hand, I turned, enfolded him in my arms, and unleashed the explosion.
I awoke next to Peter. We were sprawled on the grass about thirty yards from the edge of the enormous crater where the Homeland Security complex had been. It was my greatest triumph yet. I wanted to stand by the side of the road and take a bow. Instead, I sat and watched the bloody second act unfold. When the military rescue vehicles arrived, I waved away an Army triage technician, telling him we were fine and pointing in the direction of a woman who knelt a few yards away clutching her eviscerated intestines with bloody hands.
Peter finally sat up beside me. “Oh my God,” he said. “You’re him.”
Peter comes back to the table with his coffee and sits down, taking the lid off to blow across the creamy brown surface. He gets up to get napkins, finally tastes his coffee, and then goes back to the counter for another packet of sugar. Watching him priss around with his coffee makes me feel dark and murderous. He crosses his legs, folding the right knee over the left, bouncing his ankle like a teenage girl, and meticulously smoothing the lines of his Oxford shirt.
“I have to go,” I say, pushing my chair back and leaving without looking back.
Outside, the air that had seemed so fresh this morning is acrid and thick with smoke from the bombings in the suburbs. I pick a direction and walk. The sidewalks are bustling with pedestrians, hurrying to get their errands done before the curfew claxons sound. The streets, off limits to civilian vehicles, are mostly deserted. I push past a pair of teenagers and step into the street, shoving my hands in the pockets of my khakis and walking down the middle of one of the downtown lanes. Some people glance curiously at me from the sidewalk or from the open air cafes, but most people walk on in immobile silence, locked inside their own nightmares.
I can smell the acrid stench of pulverized stone and burnt textiles, rotting food and decaying meat before I reach DuPont Circle. I continue in my empty lane, walking around the circle to the police barricades that mark the northern perimeter of the crater.
Flowers and candles and photographs clutter the ground beneath the snaking line of barricades as far as I can see in either direction. I kneel down and look at a pair of photos tacked to the wooden base of one of the barricades. In the first photo, a blond boy of about seven hugs a blond girl of about the same age; they are laughing. In the second photo a blond man, handsome and shirtless, is wrestling with a golden retriever on an expanse of green lawn. I look at the next photo—an Asian girl of about eight or nine—and the next and the next. Rows and rows of laughing children, smiling couples, women in wedding gowns, men in military uniforms, and students in team jerseys or sweatshirts with Greek letters.
Who are all these people?
“They are the faces of the flock,” a voice says from behind.
I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud.
I turn around to find myself staring into Margeaux’s pale blue eyes.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask, confused suddenly.
She takes a drag on her cigarette and shrugs.
And that’s when I hear the whistling sound that precedes a Bluebird missile strike. The sound arcs down from a distance and ends with a huge explosion a couple of blocks west on P Street. I turn and start to hurry in the opposite direction, but the sound of another incoming missile stops me dead in my tracks. The second explosion is a couple of streets over on New Hampshire. There are people screaming and running in all directions now, shoving each other and finally spilling off the sidewalks into the wide open streets. I look around for Margeaux, but she’s gone. I hear more whistling in the distance and take off across the circle, running east along P Street. Another explosion knocks me off my feet and showers me with papers, glass, and bits of hot plastic. I stagger to my feet and see several people disappearing into the basement of a church. I run across the street, vaulting the glossy black hood of a limousine and throwing myself at the closed door. It’s locked. There are more explosions, detonations occurring so quickly they sound like a summer thunderstorm. I pound on the door with my fists, but there is no answer.
I run around to the front of the church, taking the steps two at a time, thinking maybe I can pry open the giant wooden sanctuary doors. If I can get inside, the towering stone structure might offer some protection. I am about halfway up the stairs when I hear a whistling Bluebird descending. The explosion lifts me and slams me against the great wooden doors like a ragdoll thrown by a petulant child. I slump to the ground, the world suddenly dark. I raise my hands to my eyes and feel the blood pouring down my face from a deep gash on my forehead.
I am wiping the blood from my eyes when strong hands grab my shoulders, dragging me across the cold stone into the sanctuary and closing the door behind me.
Receding footsteps echo in the emptiness.
“Praise be,” I say. “Thank you for granting me sanctuary.”
There is a long silence.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways indeed,” a voice says from behind me. “How does it feel to be on the receiving end of an explosion, Joshua?”
I stagger to my feet and turn to face my father.
He is flanked by the two Cee Bees from Starbucks. A uniformed driver and a man in a business suit stand several paces behind him, obscured by dust and shadows.
The blond Cee Bee has an automatic weapon trained on me; the other one holds a black police baton. I raise my hands like a criminal surrendering in an old movie.
“Dad, it’s me,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “I know exactly who you are.”
“Dad, c’mon.” I pitch my voice high, letting the timbre convey fear I do not feel.
“So now you’re calling me Dad. Do you want to try ‘papa’ or ‘daddy’ as well? Will it melt the old man’s cold heart to hear his baby boy beg and plead?”
His face is smooth and expressionless.
A nearby explosion rocks the sanctuary, dust filtering down from the eaves, giant chandeliers moving slowly above our heads.
“I don’t understand why you’re acting like this,” I say.
“I think you do,” he says. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about and you’r
e wondering how much energy you have left after yesterday’s explosion.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tears well up in my eyes.
“He’s got you dead to rights,” a voice says from the shadows.
“Peter?” I’m genuinely surprised.
“My name is John, actually, but yeah, you know me as Peter.”
He steps out of the shadows, his familiar features rigid with anger. The navy, pin-striped business suit and red power tie seem out of place draped over the frame of a man who had, just days before, lay bruised and naked in my bed. His upper lip is split, still crusted over from our last sexual encounter. Flames crackle around my fingertips.
His business suit seems to fade before my eyes, transforming from pin-striped blue into Cee-Bee dress reds. I stare at the crisp red fabric in surprise. I notice he’s wearing the insignia of a deacon.
“You’re a deacon.” I say.
He looks puzzled, but he nods.
“Well,” I say to my father. “Your deacon likes to take it up the ass.”
“The president’s deacon will do what needs to be done to protect this country,” my father says.
“This is so fucked up, Peter. You can’t fake the kind of cum-guzzling glee you–”
Peter takes a step forward, but my father puts a restraining hand on his arm. His uniform fades from red to blue and then he’s wearing the pin-striped suit again. I want to ask him how he did that, but he’s saying something else now.
“Did you think I was fucking you for the company? Is that what you thought?” Peter asks. “Did you imagine there’s enough humanity left inside you for anyone to love?”
“Oh no, I’m not talking about love,” I say. “You weren’t in it for the love, Peter. You were in it to get the shit beat out of you and then get your ass cored like a rotten apple.”
The blond Cee Bee chuckles.
“Tell your father it was my fault,” a voice says from beside me.
I look over at her. She’s wearing a tailored white dress and she looks like she’s about thirty years old. Her hair is long, wavy, and glossy, like Ava Gardner in The Killers. “Margeaux, let it go. He doesn’t care about that.”
“Of course he does, Joshua. Deep down it’s the only thing that matters to him. He wants desperately to be exonerated. How can he face his boss if he thinks he might be at fault, if he thinks he might be responsible for your performances?”
“Dammit! He is to blame!” I shout at her. “He’s fuckin’ completely to blame. You know what he is. You called him that yourself…”
She’s shaking her head and frowning.
“What’s he doing? Who’s he talking to?” The blond Cee Bee turns to look at my father.
I whirl on them and say, “This is all your fault.”
“Who? Me?” The Cee Bee’s eyes are wide; he takes a step back from me.
“No. Not you. Him.” I point at my father.
His jaw tightens. “You never could take responsibility for your actions,” he says.
“A trait I learned from you, when I watched you kill my mother and then tell the police she fell in the shower.”
“Joshua, don’t.” Margeaux lays a cool hand on my shoulder.
“I was there. I saw everything. I was awake, hiding behind the sofa and I saw it–”
“Are you fucking incapable of telling the truth for one goddamned minute!?” My father’s voice echoes like a thunderclap in the enormous space. Peter and the Cee Bees step away from him.
“He didn’t kill her, my darling.” Margeaux’s fingers are icy cold against my cheek. “You did.”
“What!?”
“I said–”
“I’m not talking to you!” I shout at him, turning back to Margeaux.
“You know it in your heart, Joshua. Remember.”
A barrage of images: my mother yelling and reaching for my father’s belt; me throwing an ashtray; ashes and blood on the yellow linoleum, and then kicking and stomping and blood and . . . Oh, my God. My blood turns to ice.
“The truth is: you kill everything you touch,” my father says.
“The truth is: I’m gonna kill you all,” I say.
He walks over and wrenches the gun from the blond Cee Bee.
“I’m not afraid of you, Father.”
“I don’t want your fear. I just want you to stop killing people… innocent people, Joshua.” His voice falters. “You hate me. You hate the government. You hate the Lord… so be it, but you’re killing innocent people–”
“I’m killing the enemy. I’m killing the wolves.”
I glance at Margeaux, but she is watching me in silence. There are tears in her eyes.
“You’ve killed over twelve hundred people of whom less than eighty were Cee Bees or military officers. Do you imagine you’ve been depleting the numbers of the Christian Brotherhood all this time? Have you been ignoring the parade of civilian casualties on CNN? For God’s sake Joshua, you killed forty elementary school children yesterday.”
“Numbers. Numbers. It’s just a numbers game to you.”
“I assure you, this is not a game.”
My father holds the gun in one hand and strokes his abundant whiskers with the other. His ears begin sprouting fur, the tips of them becoming pointed and standing erect. His black eyes are moving closer together, his face elongating into a furred muzzle and a mouth full of jagged teeth.
“You’re a wolf,” I say. “A grievous wolf.” My hands are shaking and my body temperature is rising. Sizzling droplets of sweat dance across my burning palms.
Margeaux touches my shoulder again. “For I know this: that after my departing shall grievous wolves enter in among you, not sparing the flock.”
“No.” I shudder involuntarily.
“Not sparing the flock,” she says.
My father raises the gun. “You’re the wolf, Joshua,” he says.
“I’ll kill you all,” I say. I let a burst of energy leap out and burn away my clothes.
The Cee Bees both back away, but Peter steps forward. “He can’t do it. It’s too soon,” he says. “This is just theatrics.”
I am standing naked before them, my arms outstretched before me like a saint in a Renaissance fresco.
I hear Margeaux’s voice saying over and over, “Not sparing the flock.”
“There is only one place for the righteous to stand,” I say. “Isn’t that what you told me, Father? Only one place for the righteous to stand: against the king of lies. Against tyranny. Against oppression and violence. Against bigotry and war and…” I trail off when I realize he is talking over my words.
“Against innocent children. Against the Lord’s plan. Against Christ himself. Against love and compassion. Against decency and against men and women who are living their lives in accordance with the Lord’s teachings…”
I feel the energy building inside me again. I let it rise to the surface. My skin begins to glow. Amber flames dance across my naked body.
My father says, “Sometimes great things come to an ignominious end,” and pulls the trigger.
I hear Margeaux screaming as the spray of bullets tears me apart.
After Balenciaga
Marshall Moore
Marshall Moore is the author of three novels (The Concrete Sky, An Ideal for Living, and Bitter Orange) and two short story collections (Black Shapes in a Darkened Room and The Infernal Republic). He is also the publisher at Typhoon Media Ltd, which publishes under the imprints Signal 8 Press and BookCyclone. A native of eastern North Carolina, he now lives and works in Hong Kong.
Couture seemed to be having second thoughts, and none of us knew quite what to do about it. Coco had been working on the same dress for weeks, taking her bloody time, as if she wanted the th
in stench of her fingertips to seep into the nubbly silk, ruining it. I didn’t blame her. Fabulously rich and gifted in life, a pioneer, she must have found her resurrection beyond appalling. If the decision had been mine, I’d have animated her more fully. I was not the one pulling the strings, though, and it seemed our well-dressed puppeteer (we nicknamed him Couture, since none of us knew what else to call him) had his limits. All that being said, the dress was a wearable masterpiece: more feminine in its shape-flattering cutting than her businesslike classics, more modern than the collections that had made her name and established her fame. Even in death, we evolve.
Cristobal and Yves organized a two-man strike when they heard Couture meant to dig up Chanel’s body. “You must not bring back that Nazi-loving whore,” the Frenchman spat. Rage dripped off him like the sweat he could no longer produce. The brain cancer had been hard on him in life, and in death he still looked like a Madame Tussaud’s wax likeness of himself left too long out in the sun. We were seven at the table: Christian Dior (Saint Laurent hated him, and seating them side by side guaranteed the utensils would fly), Gianni Versace, Gianfranco Ferre. “She deserves to rot. Let her feed the mice and ants.”
“Would you want to feed them yourself?” Versace said.
This brought a moment—only a moment—of silence to the table. Seven large egos paused to reflect. I could see what Balenciaga was thinking: It would be better than this. Of course he was thinking it; we all were. Yet no one spoke up. Sometimes you just have to have a think first. Me, I’ve never been an arse-licker, but I’ve also never been brought back from the grave. So I shut the fuck up. We watched Couture tuck into the mound of sashimi his private chef had brought in from Hokkaido. A sip of the Sauternes in his glass. Back to the fish. He was like a half-starved alley cat.
The Lavender Menace Page 7