The Joy of Funerals, page 11
She walked down a dim corridor, calling out for the old man, never receiving a reply.
She stopped once she got to his bedroom. The door was ajar and even though she was sure he wasn’t home, knocked on the frame. She pushed the rickety door and rested her eyes on the man lying on the bed.
Her heart raced, filled with anger. He was asleep. He hadn’t been hurt or injured or working.
She stood over him for a moment, thinking that would rouse him. Then she shook him. Softly at first. Then harder. She grabbed hold of his fat shoulders, bounced him on the bed. “Wake up, old man. Get up.” She started to hit him, slap his face, tears rolling down her checks. “Wake the fuck up.”
It was then that she saw the photo.
Next to his body was a picture, an old, fraying black-and-white Kodak square of a woman holding a baby standing next to a man. Both were smiling. She reached for it, her hands damp. The baby could have been her. The woman, her mother. She wasn’t sure. She scanned the room, panicked, searching for other pictures, something to prove she was his, anything that confirmed she existed. The room was dismal and brown from age and neglect. There were no photos of her or anyone else.
She looked back at Ben. His face was pale, his body surprisingly warm. She checked for a pulse but didn’t really need to. She already knew.
Next to the bed was a box with her name on it. Inside was the next installment of her Britannica series, C/D. She ran her fingers over the gold letters, tracing the slight raise, feeling the smoothness of the leather, smelling the freshness of the pages, like a new pair of shoes.
She sat there a minute, the heavy book in her lap, the dead man next to her.
She picked up the receiver. It was dirty, smeared with black goop and fingerprints, and thought about who she could call. A neighbor? Her aunt? Her boss? He seemed understanding—perhaps he would come and help. He could bring Nina with him. The three could have lifted him off the bed, laid him outside, and waited for the ambulance together. Even if things had gone differently with Lilly, she couldn’t have called her. This would have been too much to ask. She could request an ambulance but realized as her finger pressed “0” she didn’t want to take responsibility or claim ownership for a man that may or may not be her father.
She was hanging up when she heard the bells. For a second she thought she was imagining the sound, then realized they were coming from the old grandfather clock in the far corner. They reminded her of the ones at work and out of respect or habit, she took a moment of silence. It was just enough time to notice the matches and cigar lying on the far side of Ben. She reached over for them. They were the nondescript, generic kind from any given diner. The ashtray was clear and probably stolen from some fleabag hotel he was staying at while traveling on the road.
She lit a match, watched it burn in her fingers before tossing it in the ashtray. She missed and it fell on the bed an inch or so from her desired target. It burned out on the dingy blanket, leaving a small, brown mark. She struck another, flicked it toward the ashtray, also missing. She hated this room. Hated the familiarity. The smell of old boxes. Of dirty, musty clothing and thick damp air. The paperweights and napkins and the pens with the naked ladies on them and her life and everything that existed in this sad, pathetic house.
She struck another, then another until the book was empty and a small pile of smoldering sticks surrounded the clear, cheap glass. If she squinted, the ashtray looked like a carnival game, the one where you won a goldfish if you got a Ping-Pong ball into the small opening of a bowl.
She searched for more matches on the nightstand and found several packs in the drawer. This time when she lit one, she fed it to the others and watched a blaze of fire rip across. She flung the book, and it fell a foot or so away from the far end of the queen-size bed. She was about to quit when the blanket started to smoke, the tired wool burning easily. She looked around for something to feed it with and when nothing caught her eye, she flipped open the encyclopedia to a random page and ripped it out. She crumpled the paper into a loose ball and added it to the smoldering area. She watched it catch fire, then tossed another page. By the time she hit words that started with D, the room was smoky.
When she could no longer breathe, she gathered herself up, put her hand on Ben’s face, and cupped it slightly. It felt dry and old. Warm. She leaned in and kissed his forehead, careful not to get too close to the fire. She kept the photo of the couple and closed the bedroom door behind her.
Shannon sat in her car, the motor purring, until she heard the distant roar of a firetruck.
Then she pulled away.
Swimming Without Annette
The guy in the blue scrubs slides Annette out from the wall. The sound is jarring, like the clanking of loose silverware in a kitchen drawer. The thick white sheet that covers Annette’s body is removed. From my angle, it looks as if someone has smeared eye shadow all over her neck.
“He must have come up behind her and grabbed her like so,” the medical examiner says, reenacting the scene. He inserts his hand under her. I hear his fingernails scrape against the metal slab as he scoops up her head and wraps his hand around her throat, placing his fingers over the large bruises. I take a picture with Annette’s camera. He looks up at me, startled.
“You know, I could lose my job.”
I smile flirtatiously, like my mother taught me during a time when she still had high hopes of me being with men, and rest my hand over his. “You have really nice hands,” I say. His face eases. I stroke his ego and his index finger at the same time. “So soft,” I add. He smiles and pulls away, leaving me holding Annette’s neck up by myself. My fingers just touch the bruises, my hand too small.
“Anyway, you can’t tell anyone you’ve taken these.” He suddenly looks like a young boy, his body thin and shrunken. The blue medical uniform seems out of place against the steel-colored room. I remove my hand, place Annette’s head gently on the table, focus the camera, and shoot. The clicking and fastforwarding sound reverberates off the sterile walls. Everything feels hollow and heavy at the same time.
I want to bend down and kiss Annette, stroke her hair, run my thumb back and forth over her forehead above her eye, like I did in bed when she’d have a headache from working in the darkroom too long. Even dead, she looks beautiful, her pale skin like a half-baked apple pie. Her body is cold and stiff, her eyes fixed upward. I close them, my hand brushing over her face. My fingers touch her dry lips, caress her cheek. The bruises—bright blue, brown, and yellow—almost glow off her body. I lean my ear down toward her mouth as if I expect her to say something. To whisper his name. Say mine. Utter the word love.
I identified her body three days ago. I was flying in from LA. Some of the shirts I design were being photographed for Elle. Annette was supposed to join me but a work conflict kept her in New York. Instead, I watched a movie starring Meryl Streep by myself, her seat unoccupied on the plane, my hand kept company by stale pretzels and a bitter Bloody Mary. I called the apartment when I landed, then tried to reach her on her cell. I wasn’t alarmed until I saw the squad car perched in front of my awning. Even then, I thought they were waiting for someone else. On the way to the coroner’s I kept thinking, how would Meryl handle this? She’s always so controlled.
Annette’s face was dirty and bloody, her clothing damp. I wanted to lift her off the table and take her home. Soak her in a hot bath with scented green-apple soap, dress her in my favorite flannel pajamas. I would have brought her back, warm and clean.
The police wouldn’t allow me to stand closer than six feet.
The medical examiner hadn’t arrived yet and everything was considered evidence. I pleaded with them to let me bring her a change of clothing. Crumpled to the floor and begged. They picked me up, walked me out, and put me in a car. One of the rookies drove me home, the siren off. I sat in the back seat and watched the handcuffs that hung from the gate swing back and forth, knocking against the window.
“We better go,” the examiner says.
I nod and take a few more photos. I think about developing them myself. Annette taught me how, but I haven’t been able to go into the darkroom yet. Instead, I give the film to a one-hour photo place near NYU. I tell them I’m taking a forensics class and that the photos are a bit gruesome, then ask, “Do you give student discounts?”
The pounding of house music from the nightclub above is light enough to be annoying but not loud enough for me to make out the song. There’s an uneasy hum; the clicking of cups against saucers, an occasional stir of a spoon against ceramic, the sound of the waitress’s croaking voice asking if I want a refill, all seem distorted. The diner takes on a ghostly feel, as if waiting for something to happen. As if time has slowed down. Even the air seems to move cautiously.
I glance at the clock above that registers 10:05 p.m. For the past six hours, I’ve been waiting for my lover’s killer. I have decided to look for him on odd days of the week, those being Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
Annette was here a month ago. Sitting in this spot, perhaps, pre-Christmas gifts on one side, photography magazines on the other of the padded booth. It was outside this restaurant where he grabbed her, threw her down, his hands ripping at her neck, his fingers pressed into her skin, nails cutting her flesh.
It was in this alley where her body lay sprawled on the cold pavement. Blood mixed with loose negatives, rolls of undeveloped film, lipstick and wallet tossed like shells on the beach. In my mind I visualize the approach, see him needing help of some sort, maybe asking for directions or claiming he was sick. I picture him with thick, dark hair and sharp features. He’s tall and broad, with clear skin and charming good looks.
We met at a party in SoHo five years ago. I caught sight of her walking in a few minutes after me. Her eyes were magnificent, iridescent, and her hair had a silky, ash-colored glow. We stood a few feet away from each other at the bar. I remember wanting to slide my hand over to hers and see what her skin felt like. I wanted to stand close enough to smell her perfume, her breath, anything. I wanted to be her.
We gave each other knowing glances until she slinked over to me, pulled at my sweater, and led me off to the side, not a word spoken. We sat in worn-in velvet chairs, smoked her Parliaments, and drank espresso martinis, syrupy and sweet. We stared at each other and listened to the jazz quartet made up of women who performed on stage.
Annette had the most beautiful lips, soft and full, like feathers or white daisies. We kissed outside the bar, the cold air sobering us up. She’d put her arms around my back, brought my hips close to her, and for one moment, a brief second that you can’t grab on to, I was whole and immortal. Almost nothing. We stood there, embarrassed, in the street. People stopped and stared, jealous of our affection, disgusted by our display.
The door opens. Cold air catches me off guard. A man walks in with another woman. Her arm is hooked through his and they laugh as if they’ve just come from a ritzy cocktail party and are sharing an inside joke. They take a seat off to my left. He’s tall, broad, and terribly attractive in a Gatsby sort of way. He’s wearing a dark green trench coat. I write all this in my notebook.
I sit here and wait.
I drink my coffee. l watch others. I think of a plan.
The first victim was a married gynecologist who’d bought three pairs of shoes from the store next to the diner. They found her several hours later in the stairwell of her walkup, a patent leather flat crammed into her mouth, her neck broken. The second and third were club kids from the after-hours lounge a few blocks from here. A matchbook from the diner was tucked into the cellophane wrapper of the Marlboro package in one of their pockets. They were spotted on the street, arms linked together, bodies flopped over like Raggedy Ann dolls. People assumed they were homeless kids who’d passed out on the street after a night of partying. In their laps was loose change from well-meaning strangers. The fourth lived across the street. She had just brought dinner from here. I imagine the food still hot, the fries greasy, bun getting soggy, cheese on the hamburger turning hard as she struggled to open her door. Maybe he came up behind her and offered to help. Maybe he said he was visiting someone, and she let him in. The police found her body propped up against her elevator gate, aluminum take-out container opened and placed purposely in her lap.
The prints the police pulled from the victims are useless. Computers came up without a name or a lead. There are no hair follicles, no clothing fibers, no skin embedded under any of the women’s fingernails. Still, the cops have assured me they’re doing all they can. They have round-the-clock surveillance, detectives in unmarked cars positioned outside, an undercover cop dressed as a homeless person in the alley where Annette was found. They look at me funny, eyes shifting away from me when they tell me this, their impatience elevating each time they see me at the station. They are no longer interested in my write-ups or my photos of restaurant patrons. At first they took them with interest. Now they sit in a folder at the bottom of a pile of Manila envelopes on someone’s desk.
The pungent odor of unwashed hair and sweat floats by. It belongs to the biker boy who wears a thick chain and combination lock around his neck. It clinks as he walks past me. One leg of his nylon workout pants is scrunched up at his knee, the other hangs down over his sneaker. Gold rings decorate most of his grimy fingers; the largest one reads fuck me. It’s time to go.
I walk out the door, dazed from the thick air of the diner, and almost get knocked over by people hurrying home, anxious to get out from the cold, their winter coats and furs pulled up against their ears, faces hidden by scarves and earmuffs.
Cars buzz by, the street light changes.
At home, without Annette, I look for a place to sit. A place where my body will fit comfortably into the crevices of emptiness. There are traces of Annette everywhere, tangible evidence that prove I once lived with someone: Special K cereal, a camera bag, her photographs. The light, dizzying smell of her burns through the walls, like cooking aromas from the neighbor next door. I’ve had the rugs cleaned and repainted the apartment. After two months of her absence, she still hangs in the air.
Photos of her body are spread out everywhere, along with the police file and autopsy report, making my apartment look like a detective’s office. I’ve collected a mass of folders, too. Lists of specialists, orthopedists, criminologists, and therapists, along with printouts from internet sites dealing with murderers, profiler gurus, and unsolved FBI cases, are stacked in neat packets on the floor. The wall next to the dining room is decorated with her as well. I’ve replaced Annette’s beautiful photographs with large bulletin boards. They display fingerprints, hand charts, and the photos I took at the morgue. When I can’t sleep, I stare at them. I resurrect her voice, recreate her laugh, place a mental picture of her in the antique chair we bought together at the 26th Street Flea Market, and ask her to tell me what happened.
I think of her smile as l run my hand over one of the blown up photos of her face. I place the tip of my index finger over one of the bruises and trace the outline of her neck. This is the part of her I miss most. The way she’d toss her head back when she’d laugh, her ash hair spilling over her shoulders, over her eyes. She’d take her fingers and run them just above her scalp and pull the hair away from her face. I inch my thumb over her lips, aching to feel them on my mouth. I miss her teeth. The light clicking of enamel when we’d kiss, the sucking of her lower lip, the feel of her tongue. When she worked late, and l was already in bed, she’d slide in next to me, smelling of silver chloride and stop bath, place her lips just over my earlobe, and say, I’m home. We’d lie in bed, our bodies intertwined, our voices just above a whisper, while the glow from the TV illuminated the room.
A heavyset woman thuds into a booth. I catch her reflection in the window. The double chin makes her look deformed. Her face is tense, her eyes glassy. She looks as if she’s going to cry. The staff calls her Lindsay.
“Need a menu tonight?” the waitress asks, placing a Rolling Rock in front of her.
Her arms are so large that her watchband digs into her wrist. It looks as if the thin leather strap will snap at any moment. I wonder what kind of mark it leaves at night, if she takes it off, if she lets the suffocating skin breathe. I wonder if he’s watching her and if she will be next. Maybe it’s me who’s caught his eye. Maybe it’s my name on his list.
Knowing he might be here is all I have. It’s the only thing I can hold on to. The only thing I can do to help. So I wait and watch and listen and stare and observe.
I came here every day in the beginning. Dragged Annette’s parents and my brother here, too. Both appeased me. We sat for hours, nursed bad coffee, ate tuna melts, and picked at fries.
During the third month, the waitress asks if I’ve gotten a job nearby since she’s noticed me eating here so often. I nod yes. I’m surprised it’s taken her this long to ask.
“What do you do?” she inquires, setting silverware in front of me. She’s dressed in a black-and-white waitress uniform. Her nametag reads Doris.
‘’I’m a clothing designer. I make T-shirts.”
“Oh,” she exclaims, her face opening up like a flower bulb. “How exciting.”
I smile politely and pull at my sweatshirt, trying to remember what I’m wearing underneath. Something I’ve made or did I merely throw on a white T from the Gap? Sometimes I wear whatever I’ve slept in.
This morning I awoke from a terrible, wonderful dream. Annette and I were in bed, making love. For the first few minutes I was unable to tell what had actually occurred and what was from the deep crevasses of sleep. I placed my hand in the spot where I thought she was to see if it was warm, to see if she had been here. I called for her, thinking maybe she was in the next room reading the paper or dressing for work or making coffee so we could sip it together, both sharing one mug. I slinked out of bed, walked into the next room, and found it empty. The whole apartment was. I expected to smell her perfume, but I think that would have been too much for me to handle.
