The Saint Louisans (30 page)

I rolled my eyes.

“But I'm here, back in my home town, because of Corn Mother. When I had
lunch with Julia Roberts, we agreed there's need for faith and values. Corn Mother offers that. I've channeled Corn Mother's teachings, and on my web site listeners can find new faith and hope.”

I abandoned Dan as I heard the web site given. Jack spoke.

“No kidding, huh, Jama? Kinda makes you wonder what's beneath that mansion. Where some French scientist said this Corn Mother's buried.”

Trickling in the background was bumper music leading into the break. Jama's voice shifted to deep and dramatic, like I'd heard a hundred times when she went over lines.

“Yes, Jack. There's power there. The original power. Like King Tut. And she's waiting … for you. Me. All of us.”

Jama's timing was perfect as music jived and rose, cutting to the usual canned pitch. When I came to the crowd, Kelly approached, now down to her magenta tank.

“Hey, Lee, that your daughter? Isn't this Corn Mother something?”

“Yes, it's really something. Kelly, do you have a laptop?”

“Yeah. Right here by my stuff.” She reached down and pulled it out.

I told her Jama's website, and Kelly tapped it out, smiling as she did to passersby. After all, she was Veiled Prophet Queen and still on duty. The sun glinted off her tiara as the screen filled with a brilliant graphic of Cahokia mounds, the Arch, and a beautiful woman clad in a chic deerskin mini and glittering accessories, her arms raised to the sky … Hollywood's version of a native American goddess. Cher after she dumped Sonny. Flute music played a mournful tune reminding me of Ravel. An eagle's kitschy cry came as words ghosted on the screen:
Corn Mother: Your Goddess
.

I clicked the contact line. When the words ‘contributions' came up, Kelly's pleasant features scrunched into curiosity.

“Lee, are you okay?”

I rubbed my forehead, feeling Excedrin headache number one hundred. “Jama's back in business.”

In the drawing room, Saul admired a bronze figurine of a nymph. I had just sedated Margot and after making sure she was comfortable, I told Saul about Jama and Corn Mother. He frowned.

“Boy, your family gets a lot of mileage out of Zechariah. Most normal Bible thumpers stick with Ezekiel. Lest we forget, there's Jeremiah. Jeremiah's always a hoot.” He replaced the figurine back on a marble tabletop. “A Saint Gaudens. Its companion is lost. I like the green. Most people—most amateurs—want the bronze re-shined. They don't understand the patina looks better aged. It has to age.”

The mid-afternoon sun left a dull light throughout the room, but it wasn't sad. Light in the mansion always revealed and enlightened. Saul looked up, admiring the ceiling and its swirling confection of plaster.

“I'm babbling,” he sighed. “Bad news?”

“Vess is pushing for the City Council to declare the mansion under eminent domain. Thanks to Sonia.”

He frowned. “At least you tried.”

Rainer entered.

“She is sleeping,” Rainer said in a museum guard's voice. “The doctor will be here, soon. Will you be back this evening, Mrs. Bridger? When Madame wakes, she will want her daughter by her side.”

“I'll be here.”

“It gives her much peace,” Rainer said, rearranging the figurine as Saul
had placed it a quarter inch too far to the right, “to know her first child is here. In the home she was meant to have.”

The house, as always, had that guidebook feel to it, all immaculate and ordered, a comforting smell of old wood and dignity, the latter a kind of godly furniture polish throughout the mansion. I tried to see the place as Pierre and Terri saw it, a familial Bastille, and failed. Nor could I use Vess's perspective of a tomb to racism. The mansion's age, light, and delicacy made it a happily-ever-after kind of place Aunt Mary would have enjoyed. It was doomed, as fairy tales usually are.

Saul and I climbed stairs leading to the mayor's office. Echoes from nearby chambers and a faint chill made City Hall seem like a well-sculpted cave.

“Now remember,” I said. “Be nice.”

Saul dug his hands into his overcoat. “Sure. I'm the king in exile. The guy who called the mayor's friend an asshole because of the damned Vitrolite ruining—”

“Saul.”

“Yeah, I'm cool.” He looked up and parodied a Seinfeld episode. “‘Serenity now, serenity now.'”

The corridor funneled from an artery into a capillary whose wall offered a gauntlet of past mayors, most in round, gold-framed oil paintings. The paint was fading, blotting out former civic paladins like John F. Darby, Bernard Pratte, and the others, now truly becoming lesser lights.

We were led into Hizzoner's office, a fine box of dignified wood paneling. A breath of heat gusted from the grill. The mayor was in shirtsleeves, always ready for a photo op showing him hard at work. A broad-shouldered man, he looked good in shirtsleeves or suits, and could even button the middle button of a suit coat and appear trim. On his desk were papers, a modest low-rise of files, and a platter of sausage. The odor of meat was lavish, for they were big, fat specimens, thick as artillery shells. He shook hands and smiled.

“Gifts from my constituents,” he said, indicating the sausage. “From the Hill. To remind me of my Italian roots. I'm grateful, but I prefer votes.” His smile was heartening, like the refined
maitre'd
he reminded me of. “So much for my yogurt and veggie lunch. Ms. Bridger, good to see you again.”

Saul offered his hand. “Good morning, Your Honor.”

“It should be, Saul. No assholes here.”

Saul winced as they shook hands. “It wasn't meant for you.”

The mayor's smile shifted from drive to third gear. I saw a flunky in the corner. She wore a cranberry suit and a Hillary Clinton bob, genially tapping her watch. We were on the clock. The mayor picked up a tube of salami and examined it, its rush of garlic deep and intoxicating.

“Grandpa, you know, ran a butcher shop near Pestalozzi. I'd go in there, look up and see sausages—ciauscolo, mortadella, sopressata—hanging from the ceiling like stalactites. All of that meat, a bunch of old men doing the hand gestures in Italian. And me. “‘Ey, Pietro',” the old guys would say, “‘whatsa witha youa grandkid? No work inna shop. Gonna be a college man, eh?'”

I smiled. “He graduated Washington U. law school. Cum laude.”

“And,” Saul added, “you did a great job cleaning up that housing scandal near Cherokee.”

The mayor's smile shifted to neutral. “I can't save the mansion.”

Saul was firm. “You can. It's beautiful, and Mrs. Desouche was one of your earliest supporters. You can do it for her. The city.”

“Of course it's beautiful,” the mayor replied. “I've been there, and Margot pressured Civic Forum so I'd get elected. But it's a tight year.”

Saul's impatience made him lean closer. “What did David Mamet say? ‘Part of the burden of command is you have to sell the other fellow out.'”

I frowned at this. The mayor shrugged.

“Juneteenth Towne has seventy percent of the North side bucking for it. Without the north, no one wins. Vess wants it. He's even talking about entering the primaries.”

That was odd. St. Louis is a Democratic fiefdom. Winning the primaries guarantees reelection. “A threat from Vess?” I said. “He's unelectable.”

“He's pumping Cleaver Frampton to run. As a surrogate.”

Frampton was one of the North side's richest undertakers, always a solid financial base in the black community.

The mayor nodded. “I've explored ways to keep the mansion and Juneteenth, but Vess and Smatters claim it's in the way, and that housing will provide three hundred jobs. I can't fight that, not with unemployment high as it is.”

Saul's head shook in frowning disagreement. “How many of those jobs will be union? Out of town? Not that many will be filtered back to the black community.”

“Enough will be. The
Post
will endorse it. So does the Desouche family, especially Pierre. He and Vess are tight. I'm also getting some weird noises from Native American groups.”

I cocked my head. “Really?”

He produced a brochure and slid it on the table, coming to me like a skater on ice, its glossy color recalled red and yellow peppers I bought at Soulard market. It was warmly titled
Corn Mother. Your Goddess
.

“This Corn Mother thing is taking off,” said the mayor, “and I've had groups …” his voice trailed off. “That was your daughter? On the radio?”

“Guilty as charged. But you can't just declare eminent domain.”

“I can't, Ms. Bridger, but a federal court can. When it comes to anything Native American, they'll favor it, and I don't see any gain in the city filing a counter suit.” He raised his hands in regret. “Look, both of you … I love Margot. I've read your plans for neighborhood renewal using the mansion as a base, but Juneteenth is massive. It's got funding from D.C. You offer gentrification. It's your Lindor chocolate versus their Hershey bar. Walmart size.”

Saul nodded. “I'll dig into that funding. Sure, I'm the city crank, but I'll find something.”

The mayor nodded. “Saul, you're welcome to try. It was a lovely place. I especially liked the drawing room. It was like something out of … what?”

“Henry James,” I said.

“I was going to say
Masterpiece Theater
.”

“Oops.”

The flakcatcher rose and tapped her watch, clipboard in hand. The mayor nodded to her. We were slowly led to the door.

“I wish you the best,” he said, “and, oh, take a sausage. Please. We've had the photo op, half of my staff made dieting a New Year's resolution, and this has to go.”

A moment later a club of 'Nduja stuck out of my purse as if I were in a marketplace in Calabria. We passed a duo from the fire department on their way in, and I assumed the sausage would wind up in a station house. The flakcatcher nodded.

“Thank you for sharing,” she said in a telephone operator's voice.

Saul and I were back out in the chilly hall. On the wall, George Maguire squinted from time's porthole, a mayoral ghost wanting to make a deal. Saul and I walked on. Sorry, George. You had your time.

Saul glared as we exited. “Smatters. Vess. Funding. There's a smoking gun somewhere. I'll get to work on it next week.” He shrugged. “My flight leaves in two hours.” It was another out of town lecture.

“Look,” I said, “I'll see Sonia and do battle for the cause.”

“Okay. Meanwhile, Barrett is keeping me informed on what his snitches are saying.” He sighed, one of those good news-bad news kind, and I wasn't expecting good news.

“What's wrong?”

“You know as well as I do that if there's a body buried at the mansion, someone has to know, and that could mean Margot.”

“Sure. I'll talk to her. Rainer. At least those two haven't got a restraining order on me.” We kissed, and he made his way to the nearest Metrolink to the airport.

Outside, the sound of drumming floated through the air. In front of City Hall a gaggle of protesters stood with signs, some Native American, others anemic students, aging hippies, and a smattering of the usual blue-eyed fair-skinned folk who claim Cherokee blood. Placards invoked variations and themes on Corn Mother, and Corn Mother pamphlets were everywhere.

Drumming throbbed and increased. Chants rose and fell.

The crowd filled the great hall of the Art Museum, their footsteps and chatter making brittle echoes. Tour groups of seniors and students flowed around Neptune's fountain, coins tossed into its gurgling waters glittered with wishes. My quarter plonked as I flipped it in. Meeting Sonia meant I needed good luck and then some. I walked past lecturing docents into the Cahokia exhibit. Standing by a display of ceremonial jugs under transparent plastic, Sonia was in her glory as she lectured art and archaeology students whose casual dress bespoke of grad school and tenure tracks to come. Hand-held cellphones aimed at her like phasers from
Star Trek
. If only they were on disintegrate.

She motioned to a kneeling panther figure, tail straight up, paws rigidly ending at the groin. Although I saw connections with Bastet, the Egyptian cat god, the figure's pose looked like ceremonial constipation.

“As you see,” Sonia said to her hushed crowd, “the figure is an example of animal and human transference. When men and animals could speak. A world of cosmic harmony, where such figures in Mississippian culture were messengers from the deities to the shamans.”

A girl in sedate slacks and turtleneck spoke. “Like Corn Mother? Possibly a link to the fertility cults and shamanistic interpretation of crop cycles?”

Sonia was dry. “Yes, but the interpretations were left to shamans of spiritual dedication. Not to … strangers who pervert a spiritual messenger.”

Her eyes narrowed to me as she spoke. The students turned, and I was gazed at by the herd. I cleared my throat.

“Are … you talking to me?”

Sonia raised her chin. “Yes. I am talking to you.”

Cellphones and cameras aimed. I raised my purse to my nose, partly shielded by the 'Nduja. Sonia walked on, followed by her students. I crept behind.

They passed globular shaped bottles whose swirls and patterns reminded me of Easter eggs, then a display of chunkey stones, looking like thick spools of thread.

“The game of chunkey,” she said, “was played all over native America, another example of Cahokia's universality. Mandans called it
tchungkee
. In what is now Georgia, tribes called it
chenco
. In the Dakotas,
pain yanka ichute
. The great city bringing unity to a continent. Even when it faded, remnants of it survived.”