The Clouds Roll Away Read online

  “Don’t sweat it. Granny called her church boys. They all came out here. All of them. If you ask me, these Christians are just busting for a fight.”

  “Okay, but if Moon or anybody who’s related to that gang contacts you, call me. Immediately. I promise, Zennie, I’ll be there to help you.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “I’ve seen how that goes.”

  I parked the K-Car in the alley behind my mother’s house and walked through the courtyard to the kitchen. The windows in the French door were opaque, white. I rubbed my finger on the glass. Sodium polyacrylate, otherwise known as fake snow. But this wasn’t low drifts gathering on the lower panes. The entire window was smothered.

  Inside, the kitchen felt as suffocating as a small tent. I looked around. Nothing baking. Nothing on the counter. Down the hallway, Rosemary Clooney was singing about frosted window panes that looked nothing like ours and I found my mother on the couch in the parlor. She was staring at the Christmas tree like it was a television.

  Madame, curled at her feet, wagged her tail.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t even turn to look at me.

  “Are you all right?”

  She turned. “What could possibly be wrong?” she said in a voice that said the opposite. “Did you just get home?”

  “Yes. But I have to go out again.”

  “They’re calling for snow.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I nodded, hesitating, hoping my next question sounded casual. “Is Wally home?”

  Her skin looked drained, the eyes distant and troubled. “He hasn’t come out of his room all day.”

  I walked upstairs, leaving behind a song in three-quarter time, and knocked on Wally’s door. His rap didn’t play as loudly as before, but I could still hear the lyrics. Pigs, guns, whores. And a hollered response from a monosyllabic choir.

  I knocked again, but he didn’t answer.

  I stood at the door, wanting to believe he was working.

  But later, I could never say for sure.

  After a glass of sweet tea and some cold ham, hoping to cheer up my mother—to no avail—I drove south out of town. Dusk was settling its luscious blue on the horizon, and when I crossed the dual-span bridge, dropping down into the town of Hopewell, I could see heavy clouds blowing in from the Atlantic, cumulus shapes darkening toward violet.

  Hopewell was America’s second-oldest city, second only to Williamsburg. It sat on a point of land where the James River met the Appomattox River. During the Civil War, General Ulysses S Grant commandeered a cabin built on the point, supervising his nearly yearlong siege of Petersburg.

  But these days Hopewell was the town under siege. From the bridge above the James River, I watched weak steam rise from declining factories. The city’s main drag of East Broadway presented a historic downtown that was little more than antique shops. One Chinese restaurant was open for dinner and an elderly couple sat in the window, staring out at the empty street like grandparents of the people in Hopper’s Nighthawks.

  There was plenty of parking behind St. Nicholas Orthodox Church. I walked around to the front, where a cracked plastic sign greeted parishioners in both English and Russian. The small vestibule inside smelled like incense and a sandbox held votive candles, the flames flickering as I passed, casting light on the gilded portrait above, the eponymous saint with two fingers raised.

  Two people sat in the dark pews, a black-robed priest and a woman wearing a head scarf. But somehow the church still felt overpopulated. On three walls, life-sized portraits of saints stared out, their melancholy eyes like onyx, faces gold above jewel-toned robes. And at the front of the room, a spotless white cloth draped the altar.

  The church, circa AD 400.

  I watched the priest make the sign of the cross and then touch the woman’s shoulder. But she remained curled around her concern, and the priest walked down the red-carpeted aisle. He came toward me with measured steps, a tall man covered in black vestments from collar to ankle except for his long beard. It foamed white from his face, touching his chest.

  “I am Father Dmitri.” His accent was Slavic, his dark eyes storing heat like coal. “You have need?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The woman stood, crossing herself before the white altar, and came down the aisle like a bowl of porridge. Tears bathed her doughy face.

  “Dobry,” she said, stopping beside the priest. “Dobry.”

  The priest nodded. “Yes, my child. It is good.”

  She pulled on her coat, kissed her fingers, and touched the portrait of St. Nicholas before walking outside. The candle flames fluttered.

  The priest turned to me. “What is need?”

  “Are we alone, Father?”

  “For time being.”

  I opened my credentials. The black eyes stared down at my ID. When I showed him photographs of the tattoos, he stared even longer.

  “We found two men, killed. These were their tattoos.”

  He reached a bony hand into the seamed pocket of his robe, pulling out wire-rimmed glasses. The oily lenses were flaked with dust.

  “This mark is for men who kill and ask God to forgive,” he said. “It is Holy Mother and Child.”

  After my meeting with Phaup, I searched our database for information on tattoos and gang insignias. Using Tolly’s information, I scanned for Russian mob information. The priest was right. Among the favorite tattoos was the Madonna and child.

  He handed back the photos. But his black eyes continued to drill into me. Gathering his white fingers, he swung his hand toward the pews. “Come, sit,” he said. “Tell me of these men.”

  The hard wood of the pew pressed against my spine. The priest sat beside me but faced forward, his eyes on the altar as I told him that the men were crucified upside down.

  “It looks like some kind of retribution and torture,” I said. “But there was another tattoo, Father, on both of them. Have you heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”

  I showed him the photos of the KKK tattoos. He nodded slowly, the white beard scratching his robe.

  “Why would the Russian mob join the KKK?” I asked.

  “Mob of Russia wants money. Drugs, diamonds, guns. All black market. Even women are for sale.”

  “What kind of guns?” I asked.

  “I should know from guns?” He looked over, white brows dropping.

  “If you saw pictures, could you identify the type of guns they’re selling?”

  “Nyet.” He shook his head. “I do not see these men often. One came to me last year, offering a great jewel, to give it for the church. For forgiveness. I told him there is but one rock, and he is life everlasting. But his ears were closed. He could not hear.”

  “Do you know where I could find these men?”

  “I do not see them often. Every other year at best.” He turned suddenly, evaluating me for a long moment. “You saw?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You saw these men crucified?”

  I nodded.

  The black eyes glittered. “You bear it on your soul.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Ah, you refuse to admit weakness. There is problem. Do you not know that it is weakness that brings us into God’s presence?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I think it is not these wicked men you should find. It is God.”

  I continued to protest, explaining my work. But he faced forward, raising his chin, silencing me. I stared at the Slavic structure of his face, cheekbones like chiseled rock. Behind him, the saints bore expressions of millennia, of a church unswayed by time and trend, whose glorious peak occurred just before the plummet of Constantinople. And still it stood, centuries endured, making its way in this struggling town in an unimaginable country, as if to testify for what was and what is and what will be. I began speaking, keeping my eyes on the veiled white altar, and told him about the men strung in the trees. It was a simple dictation of facts,
the description of wounds almost clinical. I thought that was all.

  But he waited.

  He waited until the authentic poured forth, until I told him what it was like to see skin stretched so tight it was ready to burst, eyes bulging like poisoned fish, shattered toes twisted with pain. And I told him how the winter vines seemed to yearn for the tortured bodies, hoping to caress the grotesque, and how the silt seemed to drink in the blood, thirsting for death.

  When I drew in a ragged breath, I believed I was done. But the priest still did not turn to look at me. Staring at his hard posture, I told him about the two children who heard the good news from a cartoon in a crack house, and how I drove away.

  I felt light-headed, dizzy, and grabbed the pew, bracing myself. The back of my hand was wet.

  The priest turned. His black eyes glittered.

  “You carry too much,” he said. “God detests it.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  He gave a quick and decisive gesture with his head, causing the beard to jump. “What I find, I find. But I will not betray a man’s trust if he comes to confess. My vows are to God alone.”

  “I understand, Father. Thank you.”

  His pale hand touched my shoulder, and he spoke over me in the ancient and unwavering tongue, saying things I didn’t understand.

  And things I did.

  chapter thirty-five

  Later that night I walked through a forest so dark, so deep that the green trees turned black and the white snow looked blue on the ground. Behind me, bells jingled and I turned to see a chestnut horse with a white star on its forehead. The horse I petted in RPM’s barn the night of the party. Shaking its mane, the horse pulled a black sleigh. The iron runners sliced like lances through the snow, and I felt a sudden stab of fear.

  Running deeper into the woods, I hid behind a tree. But as I touched the bark, it turned to mulch. The harsh bells came closer and I heard women singing. The sleigh was full of women waving mottled brown arms, their voices rising in that old spiritual about flying away.

  I saw the sleigh driver. He flicked the reins over the chestnut horse, wearing the black hat and topcoat from Morgan Manor. He turned his face toward the women, singing with them. I saw his face.

  It was my father.

  I ran out, calling. But the sleigh zipped past, disappearing in the dark and venal forest. I stood, watching it go, wondering why the bells sounded even louder.

  I opened my eyes. Ringing.

  The phone.

  I slapped my hand across the nightstand, searching for the receiver. I was too late. The answering machine picked up.

  The message was delivered twice, a recording from the Virginia Department of Transportation. All “inessential” state and federal workers were being asked to stay home until a winter storm front passed over central Virginia. Roads were closed, travel advisories were issued, treacherous . . .

  I shifted the curtain beside my bed.

  White flakes big as quarters spilled from the low clouds. I watched it fall, a weightless December gift.

  Then I sat up. It wasn’t snowing.

  It was dumping. Inches.

  I looked out at the courtyard. It was smothered with white. I glanced at the clock. Just past 7 a.m. No wonder they sent out the message. Richmonders were notoriously fearful of snow, even the lightest flurries. Here were buckets of snow. The city would screech to a halt.

  Picking up the phone, I called Zennie. She answered on the fifth ring and yelled at me. She was fine, don’t ever call this early, get a life.

  I pulled on sweats, gloves, and a knit cap, then clipped my cell phone to my waistband. I stuck my Glock in the hip holster, covered it with a windbreaker, and kicked through four inches of snow crossing the courtyard. Madame, prescient as ever, had scratched the fake snow from the bottom panes of the French door. When I opened it, she shot out like a cannonball and we ran down Monument Avenue. No footprints on the sidewalk, no car tracks on the road. In the muffled quiet, the only sounds were my running steps and my breathing, both as methodical as a metronome.

  At Monroe Park, the dog and I traced separate paths through the undisturbed white landscape. My thoughts drifted back to last night, to the church and the priest and the silent offer of confession. This morning, there was no mistaking the sensation.

  It wasn’t the snow. It wasn’t the city’s standstill. It was the feeling of a burden lifted, a relationship restored, a promise kept.

  If I thought it felt good to come home to the place I loved and find that it waited for me, it was nothing compared to the feeling of returning to a God who loved me and who waited for me. That was home, true home.

  At Oregon Hill, I slowed to a walk, Madame falling in beside me. The blue-collar neighborhood overlooked the James River, and my sister Helen lived here in creative squalor with her partner, Sebastian Woodlief. Their row house was close enough to VCU that Helen could walk to classes and humble enough that Sebastian could pretend he was a working-class guy.

  I stretched my calves, standing outside their house, kissing my endorphins good-bye. The clapboards were painted a blue leaning toward purple—what I considered fluorite—while the windowpanes were pink—or poor-quality rubies. The colors were especially striking since next door the porch had a dented freezer on it with an orange extension cord running through a conveniently cracked window. I kicked the snow off the stairs, knowing Sebastian would never shovel it, then knocked on the front door.

  “What’s wrong?” Sebastian said.

  He had aqueous blue eyes and his paisley pajamas appeared to be missing their ascot. Descended from some sort of nobility, Sebastian Woodlief was that curious spur of modern Britain, the self-loathing privileged class. I never doubted his tales of land holdings in Scotland or Wales or wherever, but these days even gentry scrabbled for cash and my guess was that Sebastian opted out of hard work and good accounting in order to come to the New World and impress us with his elegant accent and barely veiled condescension.

  “Is Helen home?” I said.

  He looked down at Madame. She was panting happily, the snow dusting her black nose.

  “I’m allergic to canines,” he said. “She can’t come in.”

  He turned, leaving the door open. Since British schools drilled etiquette, there was no doubting when Sebastian was insulting. I told Madame she deserved better—but so did my sister—and asked her to sit on the doormat. She obeyed. I left the door cracked a few inches and made my way down the tight hallway to the living room. It was filled with gigantic contemporary masks. Spooky things. Empty eye sockets. Encephalitic foreheads.

  They were Sebastian’s “art.”

  “Helen,” he called up the narrow staircase. “It’s your sister.” The last word sounded like an affliction.

  Helen clomped down the stairs wearing flannel pajamas and wooden clogs.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Woodchip asked the same thing.”

  “Woodlief,” he said. “My name is Woodlief.”

  “And Sebastian asked because you only come around when something’s wrong,” she said.

  “You don’t come around at all,” I pointed out.

  “Excuse me.” Sebastian allowed a sardonic smile to tug at his pasty face. “I’ll leave you ladies to your conversation.” Pecking Helen on the cheek, he stepped around a papier-mâché footstool shaped like a turtle. More art. He left the room.

  Even at eight in the morning, wearing wrinkled flannel pajamas, Helen looked beautiful. It was too bad she had the temperament of a fishwife.

  “What’s wrong?” she demanded again.

  “Mom wants you to go to Weyanoke for Christmas,” I said.

  “Weyanoke—the Fielding plantation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, please.” She brushed a loose auburn curl from her perfect face. “Tell her I can’t; tell her I made other plans.”

  “Helen, how about some effort here? This is all Mom is asking for for Christmas.”

&
nbsp; She twisted her mouth and frowned petulantly, yet only managed to look even better. My sister was a living, breathing example of the color wheel, where opposites created some kind of artistic perfection. Helen was gorgeous, and she was rotten.

  “You can even bring Woodshed,” I said.

  “Woodlief.”

  “Right. Bring him.” And then I wouldn’t have to face DeMott again. They could take my mom and I could . . . I was still trying to think up a reason for not going.

  “Sebastian would never set foot on a plantation. It’s a matter of principle.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. But why not ask him? It’s free food.”

  “Fine.” She lifted her swanlike neck, calling out, “Sebastian, darling?”

  He hovered into view. “Yes, darling?”

  “Some old friends of my parents are having an open house. A Christmas tradition here in Virginia. Mother would like us to go with her. But, well, I’m afraid these people live on a plantation.”

  “A plantation?” His watery eyes filled with the assumed indignities of British colonialism. “Are you mad, Helen?”

  My cell phone went off. They swiveled their heads, glaring at me.

  “Excuse me.”

  I stepped down the narrow hall. Madame waited patiently on the doormat. “Good girl,” I said, opening the phone.

  Once again, the sheriff from Charles City County.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” I said.

  “You should be,” he said. “Think you can get out to Rapland somehow?”

  “Is it urgent?”

  “It was,” he said. “The medical examiner’s on her way, if she can get through the snow.”

  “I’ll be there.” I closed the phone.

  They were still in the living room, discussing Christmas.

  “Actually, darling,” Helen was saying, “you know who might be there? Collectors and curators. The art patron crowd. You would have a chance to discuss your work, perhaps even sell a piece.”

  Indignity drained from his eyes. It was replaced by an expression I liked even less.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Call the house when you decide.”

  Madame and I raced through the Fan District, cutting down Park Avenue and into the alley. When I opened the patio door, letting her jump inside, I was already figuring on wrapping chains on my mother’s car. I closed the door.