Crowned Heads (54 page)

“Lookin’ for the safe.”

“How we goin’ to open it?”

“He’ll open it”

“How?”

“I said he’ll open it. He’ll open it.”

Arco backed away from the wall, staring up, thinking. He went to the armoire. He knocked against it; the record arm jumped, and scratched across the disk. The cockatoo ruffled its crest and screamed.

“Fucking bird.” Arco swatted the cage and it rocked violently on its stand, while the cockatoo flapped its wings. Arco continued past the fish tanks and the open glass doors, where the rain leaked through the grommeted weepers in the canopy. He crossed to the far wall and felt behind the pulled-back curtains. At the end there was another picture. He angled it away and looked up and under.

“Shit.”

Moving quickly, purposefully, he recrossed the room to the bar, looked down around the shelves, then went into the wine closet behind the counter. Bill had sunk down on a stool, and sat swiveling, studying with dissatisfaction his reflection in the mirror. Judee came and leaned onto his lap, caressing his cheek. “Billy, poor old Billy,” she crooned softly. She kissed him, and as their mouths parted Bill looked past her frizzed head, toward the chapel.

“Holy God!”

“What?” Judee nuzzled his neck.

“Look.” He lifted her head and pointed. “The painting—see it?”

“What?” Judee said; she didn’t see anything wrong.

“It moved. I just seen it move.”

“Aw, Billy,” she giggled, then sat bolt upright. “Oh, my God …”

She had seen it, too. The life-size figure in the painting behind the cross cradling the infant Jesus had come suddenly, miraculously, to life. The hands were moving, extending the child out into the light. The head became animated, then the body, the shoulders surging gracefully, the drapery softly rippling.

Judee moaned, and Bill cursed quietly. Arco came out of the wine closet and his eye followed Bill’s pointing finger.

One hand of the figure still extended the Infant, while the other hand made languid beckoning gestures. The three crossed the room, staring up at the moving form in the white robe, with the blue, gold-bordered headdress, the cloth wimple beneath, the gold girdle. The arms brought the child back to the curving bosom and gently cradled it there, the head gazing down at it, holding the pose in perfect tableau.

As the three came to the chapel doorway and stared, the figure raised its head and spoke.

“Hello, dahlings, how’s tricks?”

“Jesus—Willie!” Judee fell against Bill, shrieking with laughter.

The figure flourished its draperies and bent in formal greeting. “No, dahlings—Laguna Lil.” He stepped down from the bench he stood on, revealing the painting of the Virgin behind, then moved past the altar, came through the gate, carrying the child, floating past them out into the game room. The blue headdress lifted, fluttered, as a gust blew through the open doors, and the sparkle of a gold sandal showed at the hem of the gown. Majestically the figure moved to the center of the room, where it made obeisance to the portrait, then gravely curtsied, first to Bill, then Judee, then Arco, turning slowly in a circle in a parody of a formally devout attitude.

“Here she is, dahlings,” came the Tallulah drawl. “Laguna Lil in person.” A brief dip to the painting. “Hello, Bee, dahling, it’s Laguna Lil again. And the little one.” The Jesus figure was held up to the picture; a life-size doll with blinking eyes. “Here he is, dahling, the little tot himself, Jesus-Billyboy. Why don’t I marry him off, dahling?” The voice rang out bitter and sarcastic.

The others stared in silence as the face, garishly made up, with long fluttering eyelashes, penciled brows, cheeks powdered and rouged, a painted mouth, peered around the circle, the scarlet lips turned up in a burlesque smile. “That’s it, you see, dahlings, that’s what she did to Billyboy. Married him off. Her only begotten son, and she married him to Laguna Lil. She did, dahlings … a shotgun wedding. Pistol Willie.
Bah
hah-hah-hah-hah.” The Bankhead sheep laugh echoed in the room, and the head angled coyly, campily.

“‘My mama done tol’ me’—bum bum bum bum bum
bump
!” With lewd pelvic thrusts, the swathed figure flounced in a stripper’s walk, fluttering fabric from head and arms, extending the gold-sandaled foot. “‘When I was in knee pants’—
bump!
Well, hardly knee pants; more like knee skirts. I’ll give you th’ bridge to that song, Wimp…. ‘A woman’s a two-face … a worrisome thing … leave ya t’ sing … blues in th’ night.’ You see how it is, darlings; she couldn’t let her Billyboy go, so she married him. To Laguna Lil. ‘My mama done tol’ me—Son …’” The hand lifted the skirt of the gown and let it fall. “Like it? Fedora’s. From the movie. But not Mary, you know, not the Holy Mother. Bee’s the holy mother. This is Laguna Lil … that’s what we call her. Billyboy and Lil get married and Mama’s happy, aren’t you, Mama? Buzz buzz buzz. And … Mama lets her Billyboy wear … well, you see what it is.” Holding the skirts out, the figure drifted to the glass case that contained the silver crown, took it out and placed it on his own head. “Divine, isn’t it?” He moved back and held up the photograph of Fedora, dressed as the Virgin in
The Miracle of Santa Cristi.
The costumes were identical, yet one was a travesty. “Tallulah would have adored it. Bee did, and …” The hand came up in a delicate but hopeless wafting gesture, settling the crown more securely on his head. “All because a woman died in an epileptic fit on the …” The voice faltered as the figure collapsed to its knees before the portrait. “… steps of an … Italian country … church.” He lowered his head, the crown slipped, he caught it and tossed it like a quoit onto the arm of the doll, then laid both aside. He hiccupped, blinked, stared blankly around, his gaze eventually coming to rest on Arco, who was watching the scene with detached amusement. The clock chimed. The sound held, died; there was an infinitesimal pause, a moment’s beat as when an actor goes up in his lines and needs prompting. Then, in the silence, Arco’s amusement vanished, to be replaced by a fierce expression, as if he were assuming another role. Again his pale face darkened, his languor was transformed into galvanized action, and with a furious half-laugh, half-cry—“Blasphemy!”—he threw himself at the collapsed figure. Tearing away the blue, gold-bordered drapery, he stared down at Willie’s crumpled face, macabre and ludicrous in its woman’s make-up, and raised his arm in violent menace.

“You’re not going to hurt me, are you?” Beneath the long lashes the eyes peered up at the bright ones above. “Are you?” There was the palest color of something in the query, as if hurting him were not totally beyond question, or even beyond desire. Instead of striking, Arco grabbed at the gold neck chain and yanked; Willie’s torso bent forward under the strain. Judee pressed forward, weird giggling sounds coming from around the small fist she had doubled up at her mouth. Arco leaned over and used both hands to snap the chain, catching the medals and keys as they fell. Sorting them, he dashed back across the room to the chapel, where he banged through the gate and began fitting the keys at the locks of the wooden coffer on the altar.

“No—” Willie had half turned, his arm raised in supplication. Bill came from behind and restrained him until Arco rushed cursing from the chapel, struggling under the weight of the box. Eluding Bill, Willie staggered up and grabbed at Arco as he came. “Give me that.” Arco shoved him away and set the opened box on the table.

“There’s no mirror in here. What the fuck is this anyway?” He held a small white object, perhaps three inches long. He grabbed Willie’s arm and shoved the object under his face. “What is it?”

“A … holy object.” Clutching the draperies about him, Willie struggled forward. “Give it to me—”

“Lemme see.” Judee took the thing from Arco and examined it. “Looks like some kind of bone.”

“Yes, a bone.” Willie reached out to her. “Please? Let me have it?” Arco knocked his hand away and seized the object from Judee; Willie started whimpering. “It’s a bone from the foot of Saint Trebonius. A holy relic. You shouldn’t touch it, it’s holy, holy—”

“Shit!” Arco flung it away and Willie scrabbled across the tiles to retrieve it. He cupped it in his hand, crooning and pressing it to his chest. “Mama … ?” The mocking Bankhead laugh broke out once more as he rose and began the bump-and-grind step again, lurching about the room. “‘My mama done tol’ mee’—
Bah
-hah-hah-hah-hah, dahlings, you see, it’s all a joke, just a joke.”

Arco advanced on him. “What d’you mean—a joke?”

“’S a fake—one of Bee’s ter-rific ideas, dahling.” He sauntered away, reverting to his natural voice. “I don’t even know if it came from a foot, let alone Saint … whoever.” He pointed toward the chapel. “Everything’s fake. Cedars of Lebanon? Not at all. A man from the studio prop department made that cross. California cypress, not cedar. No Knight of Malta. Box is a fake, too. No monks of Mont Saint Michel. Bible—no Cardinal Richelieu. Fake, see? Movie props; make-believe. Bee—busy bee—she did th’ embroidery. No nuns of Bruges. It’s a movie set. And the painting. Not Renaissance, not Quattrocento, not a bit of Quattrocento. Done by a painter in Laguna, friend of Bee’s. Laguna Lil, see? It’s all a joke, see, just a joke. Bee’s joke.” He was laughing, then harder, clutching himself, laughing so he couldn’t stop; it rose up out of him in squalls of high-pitched mirth. Holding his stomach, he tumbled back on a sofa. “Joke—see the joke?”

Arco struck him. Three violent blows, but punctuated by precise pauses between, lifting the hand and holding it a moment, watching, and striking again. Blood began to run. The dogs cowered, then fled. Willie stared wildly up at him, waiting each time for the next blow. Arco was coolly, almost indifferently, angry; it was as if the scene had been rehearsed between them. Willie slid from the sofa to the floor and knelt there. Arco raised his foot, paused; Willie waited, was toppled backward by the blow planted on his chest. He clasped himself, rolling sideways; there was blood on the tiles. Judee was screaming and laughing, inane sounds coming in gurgles from her throat. Willie crawled, the skirts of the white gown draping themselves along his thin form in graceful, bloodied folds. He stumbled to his feet, sweeping the clothes around him in a whimsical parody of maidenly modesty, and the draperies rippled and whispered as he fled.

It became an absurd, almost comical chase. Out through the doors he went, across the lanai, to the pool. He would run, trailing his ridiculous costume, his features grotesque in their make-up, laughing, sobbing, turning, stopping, waiting. His breath came fast, his body trembled with excitement. The others ran after him, shouting, laughing, crying out, past the diving board, the broken fountain, with cries and pantings, more stops, waits, opposing moves around a chaise, until Willie collapsed again and Arco was on him, yanking his head up so his neck arched like a bow.

“Punish you.” Hot, fierce, demanding. Willie’s eyes gleamed, apprehensive yet enticed.

“Punish, how?”

Arco whistled on his fingers, sharp urgent blasts, until the others came. It had all become a game, of course, they were laughing or appeared to be, Judee was tickling Willie’s ribs and making him scream with mirth, then pain, then he was being lifted vertically to his feet, and as he started to fold again, with a quick neat movement Bill bent beneath him, caught him on his shoulder like a potato sack, and carried him with giant strides back into the house. They brought him across the game room to the doors of the chapel—laughing, everyone was laughing—and inside. No, Willie cried out, laughing and gasping, too, when he saw what the joke had become; let him go now, he cried out, it was enough, but no, it wasn’t, there was something else yet at hand, something more to be done, and then, suddenly, no one was laughing at all.

Out of darkness, into light—a little. From somewhere, far, far away, he could hear the clock striking; counted the notes. It was two; or he thought it was. He found it strange, almost dreamlike, coming out of that place where he had been, the void where seemingly he had floated as though above the earth, not soaring, but hovering. The promise of nightmare, but happily he had awakened before … The light struck him from above, hitting him across the plane of his forehead and bare shoulders. Bright, hot light stung his eyes, but through the glare he could see into shadows where figures moved, silent, devious, nefariously occupied. His body hurt; he did not mind it. His jaw ached; he didn’t mind that either. His hands, feet, felt numb, but somehow even this seemed fitting. Everything as it had come about seemed to him oddly fitting. Strange, but where he was was where he had wanted to be. He had imagined himself here, had wondered what it might be like, what feelings he would experience, what thoughts and emotions. Now he was here, in pain, but with it a suffusing tranquility.

Someone giggled. Seated cross-legged below him, leaning across her knees, the girl looked up with her soft, bulgy eyes, staring, not moving. Oh, her expression said, oh, he was a funny sight.

“Wha’? Wha’?” he murmured, his mind cloudy again.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “How’re ya? You okay?” He nodded, coughed, swallowed. From out there in the darkness he heard the sound of booted feet moving; again a shadow passed. The girl turned.

“He’s come to.”

The feet sounded louder; a figure appeared in the doorway. He recognized it as Bill, or something that seemed like Bill.

Uncomprehendingly, Willie looked first at his right hand, then at his left, bound to the wooden crosspiece with black tape. Wound about his middle, crisscrossed over his chest, securing his torso to the upright column was some sort of plastic lamp cord. His knees were bent, his ankles also taped. Below his feet was the altar with its embroidered cloth. He lifted his eyes again, and through the open chapel doors, across the white and black squares, above the urn on the mantel he saw the portrait.

The famous Bee smile.

Then Arco came.

From his position of preeminence, Willie looked down on him. The younger man returned his gaze, his eyes no longer sparkling; through Willie’s blur their light seemed dimmed, in their vaguely querying expression. They regarded one another silently for some moments. Willie laughed weakly; after all, it was only a joke. Yet between them across the sharply angled space, a little more than a dozen feet, there hung a question; unspoken, unanswered.