Black Marble, and: Altichiero's Martyrdom Frescoes in the Oratory of St. George (Padua), and: Criminal

Black Marble

They were all there—the country-road car accidentbeside the wedding couple feeding each other cake;the pond-reclaimed tricycle; the mangled Vespa; the infantsmiling up from a crib, whose death was a mistake—they were all there, and none of it made senseto me as I moved in line, stared at the photos tapedto the saint's black marble altar; and the letters—the long-ago letters, maybe done on old Remingtonswith their ghost s's and r's; now letters, with theirstamped envelopes waiting to be canceled; crayonletters, large and oblivious—all texting with the mostheart-rending close—as if, unlike that photo of a picnic(where everyone at the table made room for a ghost),it wasn't simply that the film on a sprocket slipped.

Altichiero's Martyrdom Frescoes in the Oratory of St. George (Padua)

I

As Saint George is about to be beheaded,a father takes his curious child bythe arm and turns him away. Iknow what he's thinking. I've saidit hundreds of times—there's enough dead, we don't need to see more die.I said it when cops stopped traffic and Isaw a car being winched from a canal and saidto my two children in back in their car seats,What's that over there? in order to diverttheir attention. I made something upabout seeing something amazing across the street.I was like that father, who didn't want his son hurtby seeing too soon something he couldn't stop.

II

A nimbus hovers behind the saint's headlike a flying saucer. The saint kneelsto receive the blow. He won't feelit. The executioner's sword has powderedfrom this part of the fresco. So have the steelhelmets of soldiers in the background.They expect the torso to fall chest downand the head to roll off. If they feelanything, it's not something they show.They stand at ease, leaning on their lances,waiting for the moment that doesn't come.The saint stares at his hands. Maybe he glancesat the dirt he knows waits for everyone.The father touches his child's shoulder, Let's go.

III

My father had electrodes attached to him.He was a WWII vet and hedied following convulsive shock therapy.My aunt somehow always managed to blame himfor his dying, and blamed the VA,and, of course, most often, my mother. It says he died from pneumonia but it was the war,she'd scream. My mother never knew what to say.

The "It" she referred to was his death certificate.At the Manhattan Hall of Records, I saw it.It was one of those old negative photo copieswith white letters on a black background.His marker in Bay Pines cemetery is a bronze plaque in the ground.It says Tank destroyer. There are no trees.

IV

They behead him and he crumples intosainthood and the indispensable blood jetsfrom the neck stump and they letit and watch—there's nothing else to do—and then it stops. The world viewthey had doesn't change. They'll forgetdetails, but for the most part, they'll getthem right when they stop to tell you

about something that happened outside a cityyou have never been to and will never visit.Nothing about the story makes sense.It took place a long time ago and you don't get it.They leave out what happened to the body.(Someone claimed it, which made little difference.)

Criminal

From the chapel of confessions in St. Anthony'sBasilica a woman's screaming shocked usas we stood in line to see the saint's relics(voice box, tongue, part of a jaw with teeth)when this blood-curdling cry startled meand I spun around to stare into the recess—a white-haired woman, kneeling, pressed...