The Saint Louisans (22 page)

“I know it's serious, okay?” She leaned back in her chair. “I'm working on something. Something big.”

An old pain bit my stomach. “Which means, you're cooking up a scam. For God's sakes, kiddo, Rasheed is bad news. You're not getting out of this by ripping people off.”

She glowered. “I never rip people off. I've offered legitimate services and needs.”

“Oh, please. Jama, Rasheed gave you a month.”

“I'll save my own ass. Rasheed's full of shit. It's only $80,000.” Onstage, music swelled as Jama reached for a cup and drank. It must have been her cue. “Use the back door so you don't have to be embarrassed at leaving.” Jama went to the hall, then turned to me. “Oh, and to make you happy, I don't do tricks.”

“Lap dances?”

“Hell, yes. Pay's great, and it's all performance.” Jama marched past the curtain to the stage.

I took the first exit and found myself outside of Pookie's concrete rear. It was cold, blank, and faced the Interstate. Traffic rushed and tractor trailers moaned.

I clutched my purse as I went to the car, ignoring two seedy-looking men leaning against the wall, scoring dope.

I lay on Saul's couch, my second Zinfandel warming the muscles. Saul stroked my shoulder. We'd left a New Year's Eve party ten minutes after
the toasts, and since our host lives in the city, you can hear gunfire in the distance as St. Louisans pop off rounds to celebrate, or perhaps wing Father Time as he makes his getaway. This year the shots were more semi than full automatic. The police are having some effect.

Saul reached for more brie and scowled at my recounting of Rasheed.

“‘Jewish friends,' huh? Guy's a real sweetheart.” He fluffed the pillow. “The Sheik is probably one of those types who have gold-plated toilet seats.”

“Jama saw one. Used it, presumably.”

Saul shook his head and cuddled me. “I can't lend you the money.”

“I didn't … I would never ask you.”

“I want to. Just to show that creep.” He lowered his voice. “‘Jewish …' I'll go to Dad.”

“Don't you dare. You will not do this for me.” I sipped. “It's my clusterfuck.”

A pause, then Saul looked off into space. “Can hardly pass the hat. Or shall we create ‘The Jama Fund?'”

It was gallows humor, and after a smile, I stared at the fireplace, considering the situation. “Shit,” I hissed.

Saul spoke. “There's only one way out. Go to Margot.”

I sat up. “No. No, no, no! I'm not asking her.”

“She's got the money. She'll do anything for you.”

“Not because of Jama. Not to bail her out from another one of her fuck-ups.”

“Yeah, but to paraphrase a not-so-wise potentate, this is the mother of all fuck-ups.”

“Besides, this is just what Terri and Pierre would want. Me, the gold-digging outsider.” Saul drank and narrowed his eyes.

“You think Rasheed's in with Jama? This is a scam?” I sighed and curved under his arm.

“It's her style, but I remember the way he said treacherous whore. He's the real deal.”

We had another round of champagne, the mood borderline festive.

“Day after, I've got to see the family.”

“Watch yourself.”

“To the new year. So far, it looks like it's gonna be a doozey.” Our glasses clinked to distant popping … not of champagne corks, but small calibers.

The next two days the temperature dropped. Water froze in puddles, making cocktails of black ice. I entered the Adam's Mark Hotel on Fourth Street, uncertain what I hoped to accomplish, but the tip Saul had gotten from Barrett was right. I was going to ambush my semi-siblings. The hotel stands on the same ground that in May 1778, Indians sent by the British to raid the city came upon St. Louisans picking strawberries outside the city defenses. Although the Spanish garrison was said to be strangely indifferent (or too bureaucratic) to mount a spirited defense, the French citizens rallied and fought off the invasion. As Margot proudly told me, Desouche Pere and Mere took to the parapets, she loading as he fired.

Now, as I walked into the hotel cafe, I wondered who was invading, who was defending?

I beheld Terri and Pierre and, as a bonus, Sonia, doing brunch, heads together in conference. Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble thought I. Terri saw me and set down her fruit plate. Of strawberries, no less.

“Get out,” she commanded.

I wasted no time, either. “I want to talk. About your mother … our mother. The mansion.” Pierre uneasily nodded. Sonia attacked the bacon.

Terri stared back, arms folded. “Go through our attorney. I warned you, and dammit, I mean it. This is stalking.”

“No,” I said, “I want to be reasonable. Pierre?”

He sipped his coffee, his brow furrowed in anxious rows. “Terri's right. Our attorney has a contract ready.”

“Please don't wreck the mansion. Can't we save it?”

“Impossible,” Sonia said through bites, “what lies below—”

“You won't get eminent domain.”

“Just wait and see.” Terri's eyes took aim. “You and your boyfriend want a crusade? You'll get it. Now leave.”

“Terri, your mother is dying. Let's drop this poison and be reasonable.”

“Poison? Sure, we're the bad kids and you're the goody-two shoes.” Terri's face showed deep lines like parenthesis, or moats around a castle. “Maybe you've a skeleton or two.”

“I have, maybe more than two, but that's beside the point.”

Pierre's weariness and unease made him shrug. “Perhaps we should listen.”

Terri glowered. “We have a plan. One we agreed on, remember?”

Sonia nodded as she forked her omelet.

“Listen,” I said, “there's a lot of hostility on both sides, and I'm sure you've got your reasons. Margot is trying to prove some kind of point, and if you would approach her carefully—”

“Ah,” Terri almost snorted, “bend our knee to the queen. She's always living in her coronation. Dad was no different.”

“Her greatest night,” Pierre said with a long sigh.

We were at least having a dialogue. “I'm sure that night in '72 must have been traumatic.”

“Oh, unveiling the Prophet?” Pierre smiled. “She was horrified.”

“They all were,” Terri sipped her coffee. “That nut sliding down a cable and ripping off the veil. ‘A scandal for the court of love and beauty.'” Terri offered the first smile I'd ever seen from her. “I was there. One of the debs. I thought it was a real hoot. All of that St. Louis pompousness getting a tray of ice cubes poured down its back.”

“Horrible what happened to the woman,” Pierre shrugged. “I understand someone put a bomb in her car.”

“One less weirdo,” Terri said. “But she was okay. Nuts live. They go on and on.” Terri wadded her napkin. “So, Sis, you've gotten a laugh out of us and gone down memory lane. Back to the present.”

I saw the hardness returning to her gaze. “Which means you won't compromise. Not even a little bit. Terri, you have the power, and you must have compassion.”

“Great. Another sermon.”

Pierre frowned. “Look, Lee has a point. We could go to Mother. Together.”

“All three of us?” Terri asked, her eyebrows raised in incredulity.

He looked away from me and spoke to Terri. “Of course not. Just you and me.”

Terri wadded her napkin. “Fine, talk with the nurse here, but tell me what you say.” She stared at me. “I did warn you.”

Pierre and I warily watched Terri as she exited. Pierre sighed and spooned a cup of blueberries. “Lee, this accomplishes nothing. Terri's going to make trouble.”

“Which you approve of?”

“Mother's using it to fight back, and besides, the tomb below …” Pierre looked to a feasting Sonia for back up. She spread marmalade on her toast.

“It will be one of the great discoveries of the century.”

“I saw you on the news. Destroying the mansion isn't necessary.”

Sonia shrugged. “It is. Historical necessity deems it so.”

I saw Pierre was ready to book, and I had to bond with him.

“Margot and I were discussing Egypt. It turned to you and Lucas. She said you were into mummification.”

Pierre's caution did a slow melt. “Yes. Many years ago.”

Sonia raised an eyebrow at this new information about her co-conspirator. I continued. “That your interest in the spiritual began with Egyptology. I felt the same way, when I was in Egypt.”

“Yes,” Pierre said quietly, “that was with a Dr. Pickwick. A South African?”

“I called him Doc, and I see you've been examining my dossier. We were there as tourists.”

“Lovers?” Sonia coldly teased.

“We were.” I didn't like her tone, but shrugged it off. Pierre nodded and spoke.

“Lucas and I were weary with the Holy Church. We became fascinated with the idea of preserving the human body. Anyway, Egypt is really where our religious life began.”

“Yes,” I warmed, “Isis as an early Mary. Amon-Ra as the resurrected god—”

“This is common knowledge,” sniffed Sonia. She forked a cantaloupe ball.

“We studied cryonics,” said Pierre. “Lucas was really into it. Preserve the body, wait until science advances, then behold. We're back into the picture.”

“There are rumors Disney had himself wrapped in a freezer, waiting for Tomorrowland to kick in and do a Lazarus on him.”

Pierre's laughter was soft as butter. “Lucas told me how it could be done. You know, drain the blood from the body, pump antifreeze into the arteries, store the body in a vat of liquid nitrogen at minus 320 degrees Fahrenheit.”

Sonia looked at the next table, narrowing her eyes at the sacrilege of people using ketchup.

“It's not going to work. Try to defrost a frozen corpse and all you'll get is mush. Besides, once you get the cadaver back, you'd have to cure the person of what killed them, reverse the decay, repair the damage done by freezing, make them young again, and jump start the brain with something a tad more advanced than shock therapy.” I poured myself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, bits of orange clinging to the sweating pitcher. “Betwixt you and me, I'd rather cure the common cold.”

Again, Pierre reassured me with his brotherly smile. “That's when I decided the spiritual mattered more than the physical. Lucas and I hashed this out. He chose pleasure and gratification. I sought the eightfold path. We argued with Mom.” He sighed. “‘Your Buddha,' she said, in her drawing room where she always holds court, ‘died saying he was looking for the way.' Jesus said, ‘I am the way.'” Pierre leaned back, his eyes caught in distant introspection, as though his past were a star far away. “Mother … and Dad, were so narrow, but it's the Desouche thing. Sad, really, when you think about it.”

I sensed he was ready to confess, to share, and leaned closer. “What did Lucas do to make all of you hate the mansion?” Pierre looked away. “Your mother will be gone soon. Help me with her. Come back and reconcile. That's what matters.”

He blinked as if coming out of a trance, then picked up his napkin. “I must be going. See our attorney, sign the contract, then we'll talk.”

When he left, I turned to Sonia as she spooned the last of the strawberries. “You're happy being a part of this?”

“Petty emotions don't concern me, Ms. Bridger. All of this is inevitable.”

“Inevitable? A family's misery? Not in my book.”

The cafe was emptying. Bus boys clattered dishes into their tubs, and the waitresses joked with each other. The tips must have been good. Sonia's eyes glittered with her usual timeless wisdom of the ages.

“In the stories of Corn Mother, she had two sons. Twins. In various Native American mythologies, they killed her. But from her body sprang the sacred maize that feeds humankind. Stories shared by the Cherokee, Iroquois, and certainly the Aztecs.” Sonia pointed her spoon at me. “The children kill the parent so life will continue. There is no place for you and your sentimentality in the myth.” She shouldered her bag. “Morning Star.
Evening Star. Man. Woman. The duality of nature. The woman dies so the children continue. The tomb will be uncovered.”

She dipped her finger in the butter. Popped a dab in her mouth and left.

Margot was becoming more fatigued. Brief, assisted walks were all she could handle, her complexion slowly turned sallow. The cancer's progression was starting, yet Margot cheered at my appearance and meeting with her attorney. I was Cordelia, doing battle with Goneril and Regan. That kept her spirits up.

After our visit, I needed a break and took a walk in Tower Grove. The snowfall had been moderate, temperature chilling. I strolled past charcoal limbs of poplars and twisted bare arms of oaks, squirrels chattering like squeaking doors. I thought how the original St. Louisans named the years. In their tiny village hugging the river, French and Indian ways melded and the French villagers used the Winter Count, where a year was named after a certain event. The Sioux called 1796 The-Year-When-the-Hoop-Rolled-Against-Penis … a player named Penis died in a game of hoops and sticks. He was probably their Musial.

For St. Louisans, the Indian attack on their village made 1778
Le Annee de Coup
, The Year of the Attack. A terrible flood by the Mississippi naturally became
Le Annee de'l Eau
. What would the French have said of 1972? The unveiling of the Prophet?

This last year was the Year of Discovery; St. Louis officially honoring Lewis and Clark, and an intrepid group of reenactors sailed up the Missouri, hitting every stop the original dynamic duo hit, although prickly warnings by certain Native American activists warned them that some parts of the voyage would be met with Yankee Go Home protests, or worse.