.
Crimson Claws
26.
By the time Nashville landed at his clan's nearest day quarters (because by now they had them all over the New York metropolitan area), Goliath, his parents and Coldstone had already arrived to rescue him. They had all been very relieved, questions had poured in on him and the cell phone in one of the pockets of his vest had felt like a glowing coal in his somewhat overwhelmed mind. He had gladly accepted the hugs from his parents, the pats on the back, the nudges against his brow but felt guilty about it. What if the cell phone was bugged after all? Or it was ... he had no idea. But he couldn't tell anyone that he now had a cell phone and he couldn't say that it had been Graziella Dracon who had kidnapped him. The sunrise had saved him from the interrogations and they woke up the next night without any unpleasant surprises. He explained that his "kidnappers" were just a group of animal activists who had let him go after he had calmly and politely explained that gargoyles didn't need any help. That fed into the speculations his clan had already had about the liberation of the birds anyway.
Now he was lying in his bed in the castle.
Pat gave him a few nights off from all gigs after each such incident. Jesus, the fact that there was a post-procedure for that alone said a lot. And now? He was alone with his thoughts. He should be enjoying free periods and clan, doing some homework because yes, he still had home schooling to get his GED. But he was too distracted to spend much time with the clan and every time he opened the books he thought about the cell phone in his nightstand. The one he was kneading in his hands right now.
Graziella. Graziella was back. This thought had to sink in. Nashville had thought he would cheer and jump around like a loon when she came back and now he just felt strange. Did he cope with her absence for so long that for the last few years he had liked the idea of their reunion better than the real deal? What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he unconditionally happy? Did he perhaps still have doubts? Not about her identity but about something else? Maybe about her intentions? What did Graziella want from him? Why hadn't she approached him in a way that was a little less sketchy? A letter? No, he hadn't received any fan letters since the first year, no matter how tearful the stories were. The media department sorted out letters from dying children or something like that. They decided who got a standard letter and a photo with his autograph in return, and four times a year he visited such children that he had drawn from a lottery pot. (provided they were still alive for the make-a-wish Gargoylestar-meeting campaign).
Why ... had she not simply contacted Xanatos media and ... Nash knew even as he pondered this that his company would never have passed on such a message to him. Not because of a woman who claimed to be the girl from the footage back then, since she wouldn't have been the first to try to get to him that way. To call some of his fans (or haters) fanatically passionate would be an understatement, they made up all sorts of lies that he was kept away from. Even if Graziella could have gotten anyone to believe her, she would have needed to get past Pam, Fox and his parents first. Oh Brooklyn would never have let someone with the name Dracon approach him. He probably wouldn't even have let some strange woman see his son, who was underage by gargoyle standards. Lex, perhaps. Because Lex had dealt the first weeks and months with the whiny, insecure and more dependent Nashville of 1997 when it came to his grief over the eight-year-old girl who had stolen his heart in less than three weeks.
But everyone else? How was Graziella supposed to get past them if not with a pretty clever wicked plan? It seemed almost more sensible, easier and quicker to knock him out with tranquilizer gas and kidnap him and make him understand in a controlled environment that she really was his Graziella. HIS Graziella.
Nashville chuckled at the thoughts, hugging the cell phone to his chest and thinking. This wasn't the girl she used to be. This was a complete stranger. But she hadn't forgotten him, hadn't forgotten the last few years. And she had come back. Maybe the somewhat paranoid gargoyle part of him distrusted her - but the boy in him, who loved and wanted to love again but was also afraid of being hurt, knew that he wouldn't find a solution to his questions without taking the first step. Maybe he would realize that his feelings for the adult girl were no longer there. Or he would realize that the current Graziella really only wanted him as a "friend". Even if she only wanted to be near him so she could say she knew the superstar gargoyle; that would hurt him, but at least he could draw a line under a crush that had dominated his last years.
So, after almost a week, he turned on his cell phone and stared at the screen as it booted up. He let out a bewildered laugh when he saw the start screen. It was one of the photos Graziella had kept from their trip to the Statue of Liberty 1997. With the fake background of the Statue of Liberty by day. The paper was yellowed and showed stains of unknown origin but it was real. It was the one where the child had surprised him by kissing him on the cheek. He looked so baffled and dorky and her kiss was that of a child all smacky and adorable.
Nashville laughed and sniffled and wiped away tears he would never admit to anyone. When he collected himself, he saw that there were only the standard apps on the phone. Two or three small games. No files or photos in the folders - just the wallpaper. There were only three numbers in his contacts apart from the one for this phone. G - clearly Graziella. A Giovanni, whoever that was supposed to be. And S - probably this Sonny. The guy had called Graziella Boss - that was a bit odd considering Graziella's family and Sonny's (if he really was Glasses son) but it could also be some kind of quirky ironic endearment. Nashville huffed, already didn't like this guy no matter what he was to Graziella. They were very familiar with each other and Nashville realized that he didn't like it and didn't even know why he didn't like it. He opened the messenger app under contacts and then stared at the letters and the field where he was supposed to enter them.
Then he simply took the leap:
'Are you in touch with Tony Dracon?
It was a rude, straightforward question. Nashville didn't have the nerve or skill to beat around the bush. The answer came instantly. No hellos or pussyfooting around from her side either.
G: Almost the first thing I did was introduce myself to him. I thought it was polite. And I wanted to milk him for the house I used to live in. I think he thought I was a hooker at first. xD
Nashville laughed at the emoticon and was scandalized at the same time. Okay, Tony Dracon was such a sleazy guy that he not only didn't recognize his only daughter but also hit on her. And as for Graziella - honestly - what did he expect? That Graziella would come back to the town where her only living relatives were after 12 years abroad and not get in touch? He typed the next words eagerly because Graziella was clearly piquing his curiosity. He couldn't say that it bothered him and he was happy to oblige.
No! What did you do?
G: I sat on his lap in the middle of the Plaza's restaurant, told him to his stupid face that I could tell he was happy to see me, and left him sitting there with a boner after he promised me the house. When people treat me like a piece of meat ... they deserve to be screwed. And not in a pleasant way.
Nashville grinned sadly. He could see Graziella doing that. A brazen thing that was afraid of nothing and nobody and made people pay when she underestimated her. He didn't even think she was telling lies or exaggerating. But that she even had to take advantage of people (her own father) treating her like that? On the other hand - she got what she wanted. Maybe played the role that others thought she was. And oh, how those idiots fell flat on their faces. What's more, Graziella sounded like she despised her father. He liked that - she was strong, so much stronger than him. How often he had wished he could talk bluntly to those stupid reporters or anchors who were just fishing for dirty information to see their own prejudices confirmed. This young woman did what others could only wish for. Eight-year-old Graziella had also been very pragmatic. He liked the fact that that hadn't changed.
Is that where you live now? he asked.
G: Me and the crew, yeah. I'm even in the same room as I was then. It's strange how young you feel in your childhood room - even if it was so for just a few weeks. The good thing is that I'm no longer afraid in this bed, in this house. Even without Tony's idiots in the courtyard downstairs. You remember how scared I was? When I was still ignorant and told my friend from the dark playground about my fear of gargoyles. My fear of being fished out of bed and eaten?
Yes, he wrote back. He remembered. It was too short an answer but he just couldn't manage more. Had she included this anecdote to prove to him that she was the real Graziella? It was such an inconsequential little fact that it really made him feel better. Even if it had been a dark time for gargoyles. Literally.
G: The house itself is big enough and is otherwise no longer used. she continued The water pipe in the downstairs bathroom was broken. When Sonny fixed it, he got a huge jet of brackish water in his face. He almost threw up and had to brush his teeth 5 times.
Nashville cackled loudly. The threat of his darkening thoughts was immediately gone. It didn't surprise him that Graziella lived with the people she trusted, even if he didn't like it. He had no right to dislike anything about how Graziella lived her life and with whom, but he couldn't turn off that twinge of annoyance. But Sonny showered by toilet water - that was a nice idea. He liked everything troublesome that happened to Sonny.
And this Giovanni? he asked. He's in the contacts.
G: Gio came with us from Italy. Sonny's boyfriend, but they're both rather relaxed about the relationship. Don't be too friendly with him and only call him in emergencies when I or Sonny aren't available. He's always wanted to seduce a gargoyle. I don't want this incubus to steal your virtue. ^_-
Nashville snorted and rolled onto his stomach in his bed, his cell phone in front of him as he typed. He didn't know what an incubus was, but it was definitely sexual. He would google it later. For now, he needed a cool answer.
Do you think I'm that easy? I'm not a boy for one night. He immediately regretted being so precocious. Damn, - not a boy for one night!? What the fuck? He was 16, damn it, what had he been thinking? But the answer reconciled him.
G: No, I think Gio is so skilled. Fucking around was his main subject at our school. Using natural talents and stuff like that. Sorry to speak so bluntly, I didn't mean to offend you.
You didn't. Staying away from Giovanni if I don't want to become a notch on his stick. Noted. I think I can do that. :P
G: I also think you have other options. XD
"Not really", he mumbled. Nothing more came from Graziella for a few moments. Maybe she was tired. He should let her sleep. But he wanted to make one thing clear.
I like texting with you. Thank you, Graziella.
G: Don't act like I'm doing you a favor, Nash. I like it when you text with me too, came the reply and Nash took a deep breath, imagining the beautiful young woman blushing at those words. It was so easy and uncomplicated to text with her, it felt real and honest like nothing had for a long time. Oh man, he was in way over his head here. And he already knew he was addicted.
.
.
Nora stared down the corridor from which the doors to the family quarters opened. And there was a cuddly toy lying or squatting or standing in front of every third door. All in various states of wear and tear. It was the first floor of the atrium and there were two more floors. Nora limped around the corner and yes - there too. Animal cuddly toys, Pokemon plushies, classic teddy bears, a faded dinosaur with a disgustingly sloppy sewn-on leg right beside her. Next to the dinosaur was a bowl of cheap supermarket cookies with a note written by a child underneath.
Nora took it and read quietly.
Deer Susie's ghost granma, if you hav time, could yu fix my dinosaur too? He doesnt need a tutu becaus hes a boy, but horns or wings wuld be cool. The coockies are for you, in case ghosts eat coockies. Thank yu very mutch, Dustin.
"... You little illiterate shit, I'm not fucking Santa Claus. And get yourself a gargoyle fetishist doll if you want something with wings."
When she turned around, Claw was standing there with his arms crossed, which was doing fascinating things with his muscles and- yummy. Nora forced herself to look higher into his adorably stupid smug cat face.
"Don't tell me it looks like this on the other floors?"
Claw grinned, scratching his snout, shrugging his shoulders in that ironic don't-know-could-be-possible way. Nora groaned. God, she'd never find the card like that! With a force that almost toppled her over (but Claw could take it), she shoved his face backwards, stumbling as she did so, and immediately had strong mutant hands around her waist.
For a moment, the tiger mutant and the woman stared at each other, a little confused, before Claw placed her more steadily on her feet and flailing a bit, seemingly embarrassed.
"Don't look at me like that!" Nora sputtered, snarling, but it was more of an insecure grin, Claw smiling broadly as he let her go. "I know I brought this on myself. Damn it, why am I being so awfully nice? No good deed goes unpunished. Damn dumbfuckery here."
She groaned exaggeratedly, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Okay, grab some critter from one of the upper floors that looks random otherwise fucking ghosts will trigger a child war here. And bring me a glass of milk to the sewing room to go with the cookies."
With that, she limped away, grumbling, past the Three Stooges. That was Nora's name for the trio of the asian, the black and Caucasian young retirees who had become friends down here, all grinning after her.
He also passed the three, who were playing majong downstairs in the now deserted atrium. They all smiled a very similar smile when they saw the mutant with the hairless, naked rag doll in his arms that was missing an eye.
"Some people can only be good when others don't see it. The more affection you give them, the more they give back," said the pale-faced Tobey.
"That's what they call tsundere in Japan," said the Japanese Nishida with the same stirringly knowing smile.
"Sugar and Ice Personalitys are challenging but you complement each other well. I think your work will pay off, lover boy," chortled the black Shadrick. Claw felt himself blush and rubbed one of his awkwardly flattened ears. Was he that obvious? Nora was sometimes creepy with her quirk of always reading the right thing out of his expressions and gestures. But the three of them were in a class of their own, always so united and fine-tuned to each other that it was as if they shared one brain and spoke for each other. As if they were identical in everything except race. Better not make a big deal out of it, Claw thought, nodded amiably and marched to the kitchen to get the milk requested.
.
.
"You know ... I always knew this family would cause problems. In the beginning ... when the couple moved in - everything was fine ... it always is, isn't it? The mother was a pretty, blonde, nice thing but shortly after the boy was born, the bickering started. The man - Calvin, I think - seemed obsessed with his Ester and jealous. At other times he seemed to hate her. He screamed that she would crawl into his head to get her way. Called her an upside-down vampire - whatever that , the bickering - I live in the basement but I heard it even four floors down."
"That must have been troublesome," said the visitor politely behind him.
"You bet it was," Ezra sighed sorrowfully and shuffled into the elevator. His guest only needed a glance to realize that the aged elevator (almost as old as Ezra himself) would be a little small for his broad shoulders if he didn't want to crush the old man. So Ezra Cohen nodded as his guest - Andrew Gawain, according to his employee ID card - willingly took the stairs. And really ... the strong physique clearly visible under the suit was not just for show - without breathing heavily, the man was already standing in the hallway of the top floor when the elevator door opened again. Ezra grinned at him toothily.
"I was that young once too," he said and Mr. Gawain smiled - probably just out of courtesy again, because it didn't reach his eyes.
But yes, the man wasn't here for coffee klatch - he was here on business. Gathering information. And Ezra loved to talk, so no problem here. The old Jew limped down the corridor to the right apartment. He knew his gait with the walking stick was slow ... and yes, he probably walked a little slower on purpose to have more time for his story.
"Where was I - ah yes. The father is sometimes away for weeks at a time - a trucker - and that was a blessing for everyone back then. I almost only had to deal with the mother. Ester. Ester Hill, yes. Even more after 9/11, of course."
"Really?" the man behind him asked, and yes, Ezra shouldn't enjoy having someone so attached to his lips when he talked about the misery of others, but jeez, he was old, he was Jewish, he had severe arthritis - he made the most of the little attention he got.
"Oh, terrible ... terrible how many died then. And Mrs. Hill was in the middle of it and survived - but at what cost? She worked as a secretary in one of the towers back then. Nothing special, otherwise they could certainly have afforded something better. The house is old and I do or let do what I can but ... well, there are reasons why I don't raise my rent as much as aaaaall the others. I don't want to be a cliché, you know. No sir. I don't think it's decent - I won't be accused of being a money-grubbing Jew. Normal people have to be able to live in New York, don't you think? Not just billionaires in their cloud castles. But it's hard when the neighborhood is becoming increasingly run-down. Have you seen the mailboxes downstairs? Every other one smashed, broken into, bloody holligans and juvenile punks. Everything's going to rack and ruin."
After Ezra had jingled around with his mighty spare set of keys during his rambling to find the key to apartment 402 and was finally able to put it in the lock, the man had kept quiet. Now he spoke again in his strong, calm voice, which conveyed that he was capable, knowledgeable and professional. Someone you were too happy to trust and give your stories to.
"What happened to the mother - Mrs. Hill - on September eleventh?" he asked the second Ezra pushed the door open and it swung wide with a squeak. And in the light of the hallway - even in the detective's shadow - you could see the wheelchair (adult-sized) folded up against the living room wall.
"Oh," Mr. Gawain said - an almost soundless airless sigh - and Ezra himself nodded dejectedly as he entered and turned on the light in the small apartment, which had only a living-dining-kitchen combination in addition to two small bedrooms and a bathroom.
"She's been unemployed ever since - of course. But just because she could no longer walk didn't stop her from arguing with her husband when he was there. Which of course he was even less ... with a crippled wife, a small child and a baby on the way, you'd think he'd look for a job within the city. But he was probably using it to get away from it all. Imagine that; a five-year-old AND a baby - and all of that in a wheelchair. The boy had to walk on his tippy toes, barely tall enough to reach the handles of his mother's wheelchair when he pushed her around in the early years."
"So she was pregnant when the towers fell?"
"I don't think you could see it then. Fortunate in misfortune. Could have lost the baby."
Ezra's bones would have liked it to sit on the worn couch by the wheelchair. Not in the wheelchair itself - he didn't want to jinx anything - but if he was honest, he didn't even want to go into the apartment itself at night. Everything here sent shivers down his spine. Did the tall social worker feel the same way? He stood by the kitchenette with the peninsula, his eyes scanning over the partially open cupboards. What Ezra didn't see because of his failing eyesight or because he simply didn't care, there was no food to be seen. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, even though it was clean and tidy. Actually ... it made a better impression than it had to - and wasn't that a familiar pattern!? In short, it looked lifeless. Plus that smell. He couldn't place it well, his human nose was currently too bad for that. But even if it was subtle, something was still rotting here. Maybe a dead mouse somewhere under a piece of furniture. Andrew opened the fridge. Empty and wiped out.
"This apartment still belongs to the Hills?"
"Of course. As long as the rent is paid. Monthly standing order. Normal direct debit. And since the father has been away for weeks again and the boy is hardly ever here, it's been wonderfully quiet. What more could I want?"
"The girl in hospital. The father on the road. Who's looking after him?"
"The boy told me he stays with an aunt a lot. Or at the hospital with his sister. He comes every few days to get the mail - if it hasn't been stolen. Because his aunt isn't good on her feet. I can tell you a thing or two about that."
"Do you have the aunt's contact details?" Andrew asked, knowing full well that there was no aunt. What was Goliath constantly shadowing the boy for.
"Does the boy have problems? He's a good guy, always helped his Emi, I mean his mom, as far as I could see. Never loitered anywhere. Wish my kids or grandkids were like that."
"No, no problems. Just an annual routine check."
The old man's features smoothed with relief. He was as trusting as people from another time could be. There were no annual routine checks from the youth welfare office. Not in New York or anywhere else with the tight state budget situation.
"I have the father's number, if that helps. You probably already have it in your files."
"Of course, but please let me have it anyway so I can cross-check."
Andrew Gawain went into both bedrooms. Apart from the dust, the beds were made up as if they were just waiting for the residents to come back. In the children's room with two beds, there were framed children's drawings and two or three photos of their parents, the mother being one of those people who obviously always had her eyes closed when the shutter fell. But there were none of the children among the photos. On the wall - there was a vacant, paler space among them where one of the pictures had been removed. In the bathroom, the strange smell was a little stronger but not alarming either. Sometimes, when pipes had not been flushed for a long time, rats crawled up the pipes. Sometimes this became their last resting place.
Then Mr. Gawain was done. Frustrating.
It was good that the fog surrounding Warren Hill was clearing up in certain respects - but why wasn't he living in an apartment that his father was obviously still paying for? Why didn't his father arrange for a replacement guardian? Did he care so little about his son and especially his sick girl? Had he abandoned his children altogether and was Warren therefore avoiding being settled anywhere? Was it because he was without supervision and didn't want to fall into a "trap" of police or youth welfare workers when he spent the night here? Worried about being reported by neighbors or the good Mr. Cohen? Maybe. But how long did Warren and his father think they could keep up this game?
Ezra let the supposed social worker into the hallway of his own apartment this time, leafing through a visibly aged notebook filled with dozens of pieces of paper with arthritic fingers as he went on and on, coming up with the more juicy anecdotes.
"It's a good thing there's a welfare system like ours. Especially when the girl is ill. The poor sheyfele. Some families slide from one misery to the next. Although I think that some of the misery is homemade. If I'm honest ... the girl didn't look anything like her father. Those dark eyes, not European eyes. A little darker complexion than mother or father... I say Mr. Hill knew his wife before the tragedy in the towers ... well ... maybe his wife did things a good wife shouldn't do."
"You think she was cheating?"
"I don`t want to speak bad about the dead. But ... World Trade Center back then. All those up-and-coming yuppies there who could easily have turned the head of a young woman. Or vice versa. I just think ... she would have run away long ago if she could have run - maybe with that other man. But as it was ... she was trapped. In this life. With this hulking man. In her own body ... ask me - a body that refuses to do its duty is almost a reason to throw everything away on some days. And some days ... not just almost. Oh, what an old chatterbox I am. Stop me when it gets too much. He liked to have a drink over his thirst, you know. But who wouldn't with a crippled wife and dying child. At least his wife was putting wood behind the arrow. Even if I wish she hadn't done it in this, my apartment building."
"You mean-" Andrew began, and the Jew's old blue eyes softened. He pushed up the sleeve of his cardigan, far enough for Andrew to see the pale numbers tattooed there. The younger man stared at the numbers for a few long moments. He had read about it. Even in the Middle Ages there had been no such cruelty. Torture, death, yes - but the organized, structured dismantling, exploitation and extermination of entire populations across countries? And it wasn't even the physical extermination that had shocked him the most. It was that they had taken dignity and identity from people and made them become numbers. Numbers looked so much more civilized in books than having to imagine that the debits were deaths.
He blinked himself out of the numb fog of his thoughts and it took his counterpart two or even three attempts with his current name before he reacted and looked at the man again. He had to be careful not to get tangled up with the human alibis the Xanatos Enterprises concealment unit provided him with.
"It's not that I approve of it. I'm just saying ... as a child who survived the Holocaust ... I don't agree that survival is the most important thing. If living on is just pain - if you see it that way even though you still have people to live for - but you just can't. Then you should let people make their own decisions and not condemn them."
Ezra looked up as if asking his God for forgiveness for his view of suicide, then flipped through his papers again more frantically and babbled on.
"When the girl was hospitalized permanently ... Last year, I think. She sent her husband and son shopping and drank bleach. Called the police herself beforehand to make sure no one else found her. Do you know what bleach does to a person's insides? Maybe she wanted to punish herself for past sins. Or just wanted to go fast. Isn't that a nightmare? She must have thought about it for a long, long time. But abandoning your children - that's a burden. It weighs on me. Even if I can understand suffering."
Andrew took a deep breath. Yes - all that could get to you. He looked at Ezra with a expression that made it clear that he knew suffering and dying. Compassionate but ... composed. A veteran when it came to sorrow and death himself. More than Ezra, even if he would never say something so crude to someone who had survived the Holocaust. This wasn't a competition.
"When did you last see the father?" Mr. Gawain asked after the landlord had given him a piece of paper with the number. "Calvin Hill?"
"He only called me four weeks ago," Ezra replied to Andrew's astonishment. "He calls every few weeks to check on the apartment. Although of course I'd call him if someone was breaking in or something."
"But he hasn't lived in this apartment for months? Even though he's paying for it?"
"Honestly, that's just fine with me. I know New York is full of ghosts, despite all the bling bling of the steel and glass towers, so many places here breathe history, the dead sometimes just a few feet below us. I'm in no hurry to keep renting the apartment even if they stop paying at some point."
"Because the mother took her own life there?"
"Ester. Yes. I won't forget her name. It's a Jewish name even if she wasn't. I think Jewish on her father's side, something like that. But Judaism and the related way of life is passed on through the maternal line so ... eh. I guess I'm just an old superstitious guy in that respect. I don't even really believe in dybuks ... but sorry, you don't even know what that is."
"A dybuk ... is the spirit of a dead person entering the living. Possession," replied Mr. Gawain and received an approving nod from Ezra but also a suspiciously sidelong glance from his dull eyes.
"Very literate for a social worker."
"I like books," Andrew replied, thanked Mr. Cohen and went on his way. Only to shed his human skin a block away and take to the skies.
Too much drama? Too much suffering for one family? You know when life shits on you again and again and again and you think this CAN'T happen now as well! In Germany there is a saying: Der Teufel scheißt immer auf den größten Haufen = The devil always shits on the biggest pile. Jeah, the Hills would be such a case. U get it?- Pile ... Hill?
Thanks for reading, Q.T.