Her feet did not bother her as much as the heat. The temperature had to be above forty degrees Celsius. She heard the newscaster speak of a hundred-plus Fahrenheit, but the numbers meant nothing to her. As did so much of this harsh new world and its blaring noise and idiotic habits. Violence and drugs and sex everywhere. No respect for the proper order of things. The Ukraine’s neo-Communist leaders who had stolen power after the Soviet downfall were almost better. At least they tried to justify what they did. Here in America it was take and snort and eat and steal and grab and beat. They even ate their own language, spitting out the half-mangled remnants. But none of that mattered now.
She had spent money this day like water. And why not? What difference did it make if they were cast into the street next month? She had dreamed of this moment for eight long years. Ever since the refugee camp in Austria, when the language class she was attending had distributed tattered copies of Hello! magazine. There on the cover was the diva Erin Brandt. Of course Marisha knew her diva’s voice already. Her parents had been opera fanatics. Good people of passion and order. All the elements Marisha had been unable to pass on to her daughter. But today not even that mattered.
Marisha had followed Erin Brandt’s career ever since her arrival in America. Nine scrapbooks contained every item she had ever come across. She had learned to use the library’s computer so that she could track Erin’s career in different countries. She had made friends with neighbors who could translate for her. Her daughter sneered at her interest and called it a sick obsession. But her neighbors were kind and helpful and understanding. It was just such a neighbor that read her the article about how Erin Brandt had been brought in at the last moment to sing.
In her excitement to meet Erin Brandt face to face, Marisha had not given thought to the heat. The flowers she carried for the star were wilting. There was little chance Erin Brandt would arrive for hours yet. Marisha decided to move into the shade. She left the Fisher Hall stage door and entered the doughnut-shaped tunnel beneath Lincoln Center Plaza. She walked with the swaying gait of a vessel fighting vicious crosscurrents. At nine o’clock in the morning, no one was about save a pair of guards lounging inside the air-conditioned basement foyer. They watched her limping progress with somnolent gazes. She mounted the curb as she did the stairs of the restaurant where she cleaned, heaving herself up. One of the guards leaning against the glass doorway said something and the other laughed. She could feel their careless gazes and knew they mocked her in the way of all barbarians. She walked farther into the cavernous parking area, expecting them to come outside and call her back. But it was too hot for them to move, and what damage could a fat old woman with an armful of flowers do?
Then she spotted the shipping crate.
The crate was three feet high and perhaps eight feet long and rested back behind the first Dumpster. The top and sides were stamped with the words “Property of New York Metropolitan Opera House.” The odors were fiercer here, trapped by the windless morning. But the heat was less oppressive in the shade, and she was used to bad smells. She eased herself down onto the crate, and sighed with relief as the weight came off her aching feet.
She huffed with frustration when the lid fell off the front. It probably meant nothing, since the crate was resting here by the refuse bins. Marisha debated whether just to sit there awhile longer, but there was the risk that some bored guard would use it as an excuse to move her back into the light and the heat. Gingerly she set down her bouquet and eased herself off the crate.
She groaned as she leaned down for the lid, then groaned a second time when she saw what was inside.
Erin Brandt’s face was far too serene for anything other than gentle repose. But the diva’s frock was pushed up high upon her thighs and her cloak was bundled about her shoulders. And the crate’s interior walls were stained with shadows that glistened in the dim lighting.
One hand was cast up and over the diva’s head, reaching out to Marisha in wretched appeal.
Marisha permitted herself only a pair of sobbing moans. Even in this first instant she knew what was required. The world could not be permitted to gape at the diva in such an unkempt state.
She leaned into the crate and adjusted the dress. Marisha settled the diva’s hands upon her chest, then draped the cloak over the sodden dress. Marisha fought to stifle her sobs. There would be time enough to weep when she had performed this service.
She pushed herself erect and reached for her bouquet. Marisha cast aside the wrappings and scattered flowers all over the corpse.
She remained there a moment longer, surveying her handiwork. Then she leaned over and kissed the diva’s brow.
Marisha hobbled back toward the sunlight and the harsh exterior world, blinded now by more than sunlight. She stopped by the glass doors and wiped her face clean. One more task, then she could give herself over to mourning.
She waited until the guard unlocked the glass door and pushed it open. Then she announced, “An angel has fallen.”
CHAPTER 36
Darren’s patrol car was parked outside Marcus’ house when he returned from his Saturday morning run. The deputy kept his distance as he completed a walk around Marcus’ house, probably because he knew Marcus would have had something to say about the special treatment. Darren climbed back into his car and drove off without a word, leaving Marcus swamped by a gratitude that shamed him.
He showered and breakfasted and spent a comfortable fifteen minutes by his back porch, surveying the day in his mind. That afternoon he wanted to make a start clearing some of the rubbish and growth that stretched from the first line of trees back to a gravel path bordering his property.
The sound of squealing tires and a honking horn barely managed to dent the pattern of his thoughts. Somebody began shouting out front, but he was not quite ready to give up on the day’s goodness just yet.
Then Deacon Wilbur came flying around the corner, legs churning and hands waving. “You gone completely deaf?” He raced over and made a desperate grab. “Come on, we’ve got to be moving!”
“What’s the matter?”
“No time, no time!” He flung Marcus at the passenger door of his paint-spattered truck, climbed behind the wheel, and laid rubber the entire way back down the drive. The truck was a good thirty years old and took the dip where the drive met the road like an elephant on a ski jump. Marcus barely managed a saving clench on the dash and ceiling. The gears ground angrily before Deacon managed to find first.
“Take it easy!”
“You just hush up and let me concentrate!” Deacon’s nose almost smacked the windshield when they crested the rise at the end of Marcus’ road. Two boys playing kickball were so dumbfounded by the truck’s flying appearance they scarcely made it out of the way. A trio of happy dogs shouted them down the street and through a four-wheel skid around the corner. Marcus kept a grim hold and decided his questions could wait.