Christian

Chapter 4 of Microcosmia

Microcosmia

Chapter Four

Christian

Vane burst through the sugarplums, spat out a mouthful of leaves, and collapsed on the beautifully groomed hilltop overlooking Oceanside Cemetery’s most exclusive real estate. Before him was an immaculate garden sheltering spotless crypts of the departed well-to-do, behind him a weedy green expanse holding endless rows of simple white crosses for faceless American servicemen. The part behind him was accessible to any old Joe with a car and a window sticker. Reaching the exclusive side meant getting past roving armed security, seven feet of ivy-draped chain link, and sensor-equipped warning signs embedded in triple-looped razor wire. It took all his water-damaged ID, and a phoned confirmation from one Denise Waters of the famous Honey Foundation, for permission to wander the grounds barefoot and without supervision. No one was comfortable with the raggedy unshaven drunk, staggering between the tombs and statuary, scaring the hell out of everybody.

But now it was twilight. The place was thinning fast. Vane rolled in the grass, embracing a half-full fifth of gin--one more grudging concession by the Cemetery Director. Honey’s name worked wonders: the Foundation’s ubiquitous hand was deep in nitrates, in floral concessions, in marble and pine. And of course there was The Monolith.

Oceanside is visually dominated by an enormous manufactured plateau. Upon that plateau squats a stone fortress fit for Pharaoh, from the air resembling nothing so much as a west-leaning asterisk. The structure’s name, inscribed in Roman capitals on projecting friezes, is Raptor’s Rest.

Superficially at least, the Rest is an outstanding reproduction of the palatial Vane mansion. The mausoleum rises above a canopy of willows, elms, and magnolias like a castle on a cloud, awing elite visitors, but remaining sheltered from the boulevard’s prying eyes by a long rank of eucalyptus sentinels. Like its namesake, the Rest is surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron fence. A long serpentine brick path climbs from the cobbled road to the fence’s magnificent wing-shaped gates. Beyond those gates the path is all polished tile. Only persons cleared by Honey are permitted within hailing distance of the mausoleum.

Four privately owned, pink rose-lined lanes abut the Rest. They are not to be traveled, even by Oceanside’s workers, without permission from the Foundation. They are named Rosarita Road, Bonita Boulevard, Alvarado Avenue, and Christian’s Crossing. But every day a crew of highly trained Guatemalan groundskeepers in hot-pink jumpsuits is led across the Crossing, scanned through the gates, and dispersed to scrub the structure and mother the grounds. Not a scrap of litter, not a wayward leaf, not a pigeon dropping dares mar the final resting place of the man who refused to die.

Many years ago these groundskeepers, and anything else reminiscent of the lesser world, would be rushed elsewhere whenever young Simms pulled in the limo for a visit from Meg and Chris.

Christian spent many a Sunday in this place, released by Megan to play for hours while she reclined with a paperback, a sack lunch, and a thermos of Bloody Mary. Blissfully alone, he would creep shadow to shadow, drawn to the mysteries of hollow and stone. The mausoleum possessed the structural familiarity of home, but without all the ugly aunts and uncles and funny foreign ladies, and especially without the Sick Old Man. Most of little Christian’s nightmares revolved around that bedridden, soundlessly jabbering monster.

And once Megan was dozing and the shadows were cool, Christian would steal away to his favorite spot in the neat old building. You didn’t attain this groovy place by just blithely following the many blind halls while admiring polished granite facsimiles of busts and vases. You had to know when to embrace, rather than shrink from, the darkness. Then, if you were really adventurous, you reached the top of a staircase. Below lurked a blackness no amount of peering could penetrate.

The walls surrounding this staircase were intricately carved to resemble the walls of a grotto. On his first three visits Christian sat on the stone perch he’d named Top Step, whistling in the dark, tenderly running his fingers over the fascinating stonework. But on his fourth visit those fingers encountered the fat plastic cap of a dimmer switch. The room the boy illuminated by degrees was a low artificial cavern, populated by the stone figures of unfamiliar mythological creatures milling about a large filled pool. In that pool a pink marble Neptune was captured in the act of rising, triton raised protectively over an oblong granite box. The box was open, waiting.

Blocking the pool stood a tilted, highly polished black marble slab, its inscription at eye-level for little Christian. He read it over and over, until that very personal message was burned into memory. The inscription read:

John Beregard Vane

Just below this, the numbers 1898 were followed by a long dash. No numbers succeeded the dash. Beneath numbers and dash was a disturbing paragraph. The paragraph was disturbing in that it rambled, and in that it proved, handsomely, that a stonecutter will do anything for money.

Pioneer and captain of industry. Loving father. Creator of empires great and small. Employer of the unemployed, legal always. Patron and presenter of the arts, established as such and otherwise. Adopter of those who are all his always legal children. Legal father of Christian Honey Vane. Loves Christian Honey, legal always. Signed John Beregard Vane. Christian Honey. Christian Honey. Papa loves his hot li’l pink honey pot. God is not a Christian.

The boy would dash back up the steps harboring a mental photograph of the crypt, then slowly, bravely tease the dimmer until he again stood in pitch. He’d weave through the silent halls to the marble staircase, take the steps three at a time to the roof. Christian would creep to the railing and peep down on the cemetery’s parking lot, where Karl’s personal kelly-green station wagon would be parked in its usual secluded space. Having caught the glint of sun on Karl’s binoculars, he’d lay low and watch planes approaching LAX until the sun fell and he could count their lights in a long descending line.

Now Vane, having relived all those buried childhood memories on a single drunken reel, found himself unspeakably blue. He pushed himself to his feet, empowered by another mouthful of gin. The stuff was tough to swallow, harder to keep down. It was medicine nonetheless.

The last of the bereaved were filtering from the rose garden into the reception hall for drinks and farewells. It had been a frightfully unattended funeral for such a well-known and influential man, and, as far as Vane could tell, only one of the Rest’s Residents was interested enough to show. The mourners were mostly sequestered clusters of Guatemalan workers and family members, confused and intimidated by the proceedings. John Beregard Vane had been their indestructible symbol of America.

Prior to the awkward assemblage of workers, a bizarre scene had unfolded on the polished tile path leading to the mausoleum’s entrance steps. At least it had seemed bizarre to Vane.

A woman had exited the reception hall pushing a broken old man in a wheelchair. The woman was so solicitous, and the old man so wretchedly hunched, that Vane at first refused to accept these remade figures as Megan and Karl. He followed carefully, tree to tree, as they slowly traveled that long winding path to the beautiful gates. Vane watched Megan swipe her pink and cream card in the scanner, then somberly push Karl up the tiles to the bleached granite steps. Karl, wrapped in a heavy shawl in the magnolias’ leaning shade, remained crumpled in the chair while she massaged his neck and shoulders. Occasionally she would stare long and hard at the mausoleum’s roof. Her gaze would fall to thoroughly inspect the grounds, her face running blue in the shade. Finally she inclined her head and spoke a few words in Karl’s ear. Karl’s trembling hand rose and fell. Meg kissed the top of his head, turned the chair and rolled him out the gate, her eyes locked on the trees obscuring Vane; all the way down the winding path, along Christian’s Crossing, up to the rose garden, and into the building.

After a respectful pause, a starchy middle-aged woman appeared, leading a wide parade of conservatively-dressed men and women from the reception hall to the Rest. Her dress, her carriage, her expression, were all business, and somehow all familiar to Vane. In a woozy flash he remembered: it was that lady who’d interfered at the mansion when he was just a kid. He wiped his lips and took another careful swallow. The old man was dead, and here she was, meddling still. This woman, her pink-and-cream breast-badge flashing with each step, walked the solemn ranks to the mausoleum and delivered a very businesslike eulogy beneath the main arch. The men and women were then admitted in groups of ten. These were the still-active members of the Honey Family. Vane, watching carefully, saw not a hint of commiseration. With John gone and his tumultuous heir out of the picture for the last three days, the infighting must have been fierce.

The Honey Family exited John’s grotto with looks of barely contained amusement, making Vane break into a fit of uncontrollable snickering that left him just short of vomiting. He looked back up through watering eyes.

The stiff woman ushered everyone back out the gates and down the cobbled path to Christian’s Crossing. She watched the relieved Family clamber anxiously up the path. When they had all filed into the reception hall she wheeled and hiked back to the mausoleum gates.

It was getting dark. She pulled a cell phone from her handbag and punched out a number, spoke a few words. Seconds later floodlights lit the Rest dazzlingly, fully illuminating even those deepest recesses of false windows. She spoke into the phone again. The floods’ beams slowly expired, and the mausoleum’s muted internal arrangement took over. Pale green light emanated from partial chimneys spaced between arches, exposing columns and cornices. At cornices marking wing entrances, pairs of electronically-lit gas candles admitted cheerless orange prominences. A row of sunken lights pulsed softly on either side of the path, from the cursive gates all the way up to the granite steps.

The woman replaced her phone and swiped a card. The gates separated smoothly. She went down on one knee, placed an envelope neatly on the path, rose, and took a last look around. Vane blearily watched her recede, an intense, lava-like burning in his esophagus. He squeezed shut his eyes and swallowed repeatedly. By the time he reopened his eyes the woman was gone.

The darkness came on. Vane stumbled down the grade, the grass cold and wet between his toes. He paused twice, taking cautious swallows of gin.

He really didn’t want to be here, wasn’t even sure why he’d come; the last few days were pretty much a blank. Shell-shocked and borderline-suicidal, he’d hitched a ride to Venice Beach, mooched meals in the churches, made friends with a variety of street people, slept on the sand. Blending in had been a snap.

The Town Car’s discovery in a sleazy hotel parking lot was big news on the local stations. Anchors probed every species of disgusting activity, talk show-hosts basked in urgent calls from madams and drug counselors, tabloid dailies trumpeted endless accounts of foul play. A banner headline in one of these papers first made him aware of his brutal kidnapping and eight-figure ransom. That rag’s front page featured a photograph of a much younger, much happier Vane, comfortably juxtaposed with an airbrushed photo of his father on the Aegean, a banana daiquiri in one hand and a fat cigar in the other. From this paper he also learned of John’s funeral date, and of the heart-stopping cavalcade of celebrities slated to pay their final respects. Paparazzi were warned to back off or risk arrest.

Now Vane, crouching unsteadily at the gate, ripped open one end of the envelope and tore out the single, neatly folded page. Under the pink HONEY letterhead was the missive:

Cristian,

I’ve left your father’s crypt accessible for the night. The groundskeepers will seal it tomorrow.

My heart goes out to you.

I realize you’re in a tough spot, and need time to be with your thoughts. Take that time, knowing I’m handling your interests well. But you must grab the reins, no matter which course you feel is best for HONEY. And for you.

Call me, Cris. Please contact me the moment you feel rested and ready.

Yours,

Denise Waters

Below were business, home, and cell numbers. Vane lost his balance cramming the letter in his rear pocket, turned an ankle and bent back a toe. He shook his hurt foot in the air, whispering curses at the edifice. The next thing he knew he was flat on his back, arms folded across his chest. His instinct had been to save the bottle rather than his bottom.

Vane had no idea how drunk he’d become. He rolled onto his stomach and clawed up the steps, jacked himself to his feet at the top. This was his first view of the mausoleum at night, and not since a teenager. The Rest’s ghastly orange-and-green interior whispered a sick Halloween welcome-back. The black granite entrance was a faultless recreation of East Portico; in John’s damaged mind his mourners would be salivating Visitors, fighting to explore the treasures within. Vane followed half-seen walls until he reached the great polished-stone staircase leading from the simulated Ballroom to the structure’s roof. He was tempted to go for it, but the imagined effort blew him right off the idea. Suddenly nauseous, he hugged an icy column, slammed along a familiar wall, and so came upon the illuminated crypt’s stairwell. Vane teetered on Top Step, blinking. When he was a boy the lights had been many, and of a buttery hue. Now they were few and irregularly spaced, emitting a muted hot-pink glow. He staggered down, bouncing against the left-hand wall for balance.

The place was just as he remembered: frozen figures of satyrs and nymphs poised behind polished stalagmites and columns. The Minotaur and unicorn, graceful and proud. And, carved from the faux-marble walls, those same detailed trees and vines in bas-relief.

But now it was a stage set in Hell. The new pink lighting lent the figures a burnt hue, made the central pool a low vat of blood. Neptune still rose to protect the Raptor’s hold, but with the greater accent on shadow his eyes were empty orbits, his angry dignity a frustrated snarl. Likewise those smaller figures, once dancing in blissful ignorance, appeared as miniature lechers and w****s, sneaking around pustule and pit. Capering animals had become infuriated beasts. Trees bristled with poison, vines coiled and reared.

Vane stumbled to the black marble slab and forced a swallow, shuddering as a night breeze ran down the steps and up his spine. He traced his father’s engraved name with a finger, cleaning the area of dust and prints, and let his eyes surrender to the pool. The bolted-shut stone coffin appeared to be floating, waiting. Vane’s voice boomed in the stillness.

“Old man? Y’home?” He stepped side to side, his bare feet peeling off the damp floor with bright flatulent sounds. “Is me, Crishun.” He rapped a knuckle on the slab. “You know,” he snarled, “your pink little…hot little…your…honey.” He spat the word. “I come, I guess, say goodbye.” Before he could gather a breath, his eyes and knees crossed, his spine caved. He looked around desperately.

“Christ, old man! But you…forgive me.” One hand found the pool’s flat stone rim. Hardly aware of his actions, Vane stood the bottle upright and fumbled urgently with his fly. “Oh God, oh God, I’m so…so sorry.” He kept up a garbled monologue, trying to drown out the sound of his stream contributing to the pool. At last he drew back, almost losing his feet. “I die,” he vowed, “swear be least one freaking restroom…visitor!” He snatched up the bottle, took a careful swallow and studied the contents. Two fingers left. His eyes sizzled while the crypt did a slow pirouette. He puffed out his cheeks and tightly shut his eyes, again suppressing the urge to vomit. Tears squeezed between his lids.

“You, old man, richest sons b*****s…planet. What good you do? What your…goodness?” Vane clung to this one point like a man clinging to a life preserver. “What good it? What good you do it?” He stared at the hollow-eyed, gaping statuary. A satyr grinned back viciously. “All this…crap? Why…why you couldn’t better something? Some…body. Some…where!” He raised the bottle.

At the liquor’s smell a hundred alarms went off in his brain. Vane released the bottle’s neck as though he‘d just picked up a rattlesnake. The bottle did not break, but rolled loudly into a wall niche.

“Old man, what goodm I? What good you do me? You had…time. You had chance. You should…I should…greatness, old man.” Vane gulped the cold air. “You want me follow footstep. Why? So I one-up you on…this?” He waved an arm at the room.

This? the crypt echoed.

“I been busy last few day old…doing nothing.” Vane sat hard on the pool’s broad lip. “I hadda get away. Hadda! I hung at beach…no money. Slept there, panhandled, ate sack lunches…churches. Met all kindsa people, people who didn’t…y’know what, old man? Life sucks! Big surprise you. But people…live. Simple rules! Ethics! Friendship! Don’t just…don’t just buy everything. They ’dapt. They…sacrifices. An’ grow. In own ways…stronger. Not just…not just…older.”

There was something else bugging him, something else he’d come to say. One minute he was searching for the words, the next he was on his knees, searching for the bottle. Once the neck was in his fist he felt better. Vane reeled back to the pool and took a breath so deep it nearly knocked him out.

“What good money really do old man? I mean, did it clot…blood and crap squeeze out ev’ry…or’fice you useless old body? Make you better man…better man…wiser man. Better, better, better father? When I say what good it, I mean what good it do? God damn you, old man, where’s the goodness?”

Vane staggered around the pool into the ogre garden, took a gulp, spat it right back out. “ALL CRAP!” he spewed, and smashed the bottle on a shrinking fawn. As he pitched face-first onto a spiny stalagmite the place erupted. He rolled onto his back.

Vane’s collapse was the call for a general uprising. That same satyr leaned over him, grinning maniacally. A buzzard the size of a roc enveloped them both in its wings. The face of a Cyclops appeared, eclipsing a crazy montage of spurting shadows and throbbing pink lights. Two w***e nymphs laughed madly, tearing at their eyes. When their hands came away the sockets were bare, the eyes rolling down their melting faces. Vane tried to scream, but the satyr’s claws were at his throat. Systematically shutting down the twisted light, the shapes came together above him, silhouette marrying silhouette, until there was only a black expanse with seams bleeding pink.