What I Lived For

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What I Lived For Page 29

by Joyce Carol Oates


  “We’d know one another anywhere,” Corky joked on his way out.

  An earlier visit down to the morgue, in 1975, when Corky had to identify his cousin Cormac Farley, a friend of his boyhood, had been more painful. A lot more painful. Cormac was Corky’s age and like Corky a bit of a gambler. Except Cormac seemed to have no other trade or profession, he’d been married but separated from his wife and young family, spent time in Vegas and Miami Beach and it was told around town he’d borrowed money from too many sources (one of them, rumor had it, was the pension fund administered by the officers of the United Brotherhood of Plumbers and Steamfitters local) and so Cormac disappeared over a weekend to be found transformed into a sort of naked flesh-balloon floating face down in the Erie Barge Canal above the Lockport locks. So damaged was the corpse, the immediate cause of death was not clear. By the time Corky made this trip down to the morgue, and this time, too, to spare relatives, Cormac had been missing for eight days and there was no doubt in Corky’s mind that the body must be his; yet, seeing it, seeing that hideous face that had been, in life, Irish-freckled as Corky’s own, Corky’d nearly broken down. Maybe in fact he had cried?—he’s tried his best to forget.

  The morgue is in an old municipal building that doesn’t seem to have changed since Corky’s last visit. Except it’s grimier, more pigeon shit streaking the facade. Above the front entrance is a bas-relief of the Union City seal: two heraldic-heroic figures, one male and the other seemingly female, an American eagle above them with its wings spread protectively and symbols of farming, seafaring, and railways spread about them. On a scroll at their feet, Magna est veritas et praevalebit and the date 1799. Corky knows the Latin inscription means Truth is mighty and will prevail, not that he knows Latin. The inscription has always impressed him and scared him, a little—the best face you can put upon yourself and your actions, it’s all going to be swept away.

  Still, you can’t give up.

  Shit, you can’t give up.

  Inside, Corky’s hit by a whiff of sickish air. Not all the ventilating fans in this old building working at full force can disguise the product processed here. And, for sure, the fans aren’t working very efficiently.

  Corky’s relieved, though, the place isn’t deserted. In fact it’s busy. Noisy. A uniformed cop is escorting a dazed-looking middle-aged black couple through the lobby, probably parents come to identify their murdered son, the woman’s crying so brokenheartedly Corky can’t look, pathetic too they’ve dressed up for the morgue, Sunday clothes. The receptionist’s wicket is open but nobody’s visible so Corky just pushes on. There’s an opened door through which people are passing freely, Corky figures he’ll slip inside and see if Brophy’s around, or what’s-his-name Winkler, Wexler—the Forensics Department and the pathology labs are close by. If you look like you’ve got business down here, chances are you won’t be questioned. For who in his right mind would come here if not on legitimate business?

  Called down to the morgue on a Saturday morning in May.

  Corky sees cops, both uniformed and plainclothes, one or two guys that might be from the D.A.’s office, not a single woman except the weeping black mother. Once he’s past the lobby, his nostrils pinch even tighter. Christ, what a smell! Nobody seems to notice it but him.

  It’s like he’s underground. This place is underground. Narrow grimy windows at the end of the corridors, protected by chicken-wire. But the light is all flourescent tubing humming and flickering overhead.

  Corky strides along briskly. A short man knows how to walk.

  Always knows his destination or at least look as if he does. His cousin Cormac was maybe an inch shorter, he knew how to walk, make himself look tall by some action of his neck, shoulders. And prowling around a ritzy apartment building on Dundonald where there was a family with good-looking daughters, Cormac and Corky, must have been eighth grade, Cormac taught Corky the simple lesson if you look like you know your destination and especially if you’re carrying something (wrapped in bloodstained paper from the butcher’s for instance), nobody will get suspicious.

  Which was true, anyway most of the time.

  Corky’s over his hangover and is looking, if not terrific, for him, pretty good. Slick-combed hair and not so pasty-faced, fresh-shaven (and the cut on his cheek already healed) and very well dressed for such surroundings. The city municipal buildings fall into two categories: new and impressive, like the addition to City Hall; old and shabby, like the detention centers, the police precinct houses in the poorer neighborhoods, the morgue. You’d tag Corky Corcoran as a really top detective or a top prosecutor or a sharpie lawyer, not some poor bastard down to the morgue on personal business. Fresh white shirt, navy blue polka-dot necktie, navy blue broadcloth sport coat, khaki trousers with a sharp crease, not cheap khaki but upscale, a men’s boutique in the Hyatt. And sporty canvas shoes with a crepe sole.

  At least, if he has to run like an asshole down some alley, risking arrest and public humiliation, he’ll be wearing the shoes for it today.

  So when a guard asks Corky what’s his business here, Corky says, “I’m a friend of Ed Brophy’s,” smiling, and that’s enough, the guard just nods and waves him on. Young cop, respectful. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Corky Corcoran’s skin is white.

  Even at the morgue, where most of what you’d call the clientele are black or Hispanic, every cop Corky’s seen is Caucasian.

  Corky follows arrows directing him to the office of the chief medical examiner, trying not to glance inside opened doors, God knows what he might see. As in a hospital, but worse than a hospital. He remembers that the actual morgue, the refrigerated area, is close by. And he’s getting closer. The bitter-acrid smell’s getting stronger. A good thing he hadn’t had any appetite for breakfast, that would have been a mistake.

  He’s disappointed seeing that Brophy’s door is shut. Through the frosted-glass window it’s clear there are no lights on inside.

  Disappointed, but maybe relieved. Maybe he won’t look up this other guy, whose name he isn’t sure of; isn’t even sure he’s a pathologist, if that’s his title. Assistant medical examiner? Assistant coroner? What’s the difference? Corky’s standing there not knowing what to do, maybe drive on to Uncle Sean’s since it’s almost noon and the old man’s expecting him.

  Two burly morgue attendants are pushing a rattling aluminum gurney past, talking loudly together, laughing. The tiled linoleum floor is so cracked and warped, the gurney bounces and careens like a shopping cart slamming along a potholed street. Which wouldn’t matter much except there’s a corpse on the gurney, carelessly covered in a plastic sheet. Enormous bare dusky-skinned feet protruding at one end and a greasy glisten of nappy hair at the other. Corky looks quickly away but not quickly enough.

  He’s headed back out when, turning a corner, he hears a man’s voice, high-pitched and insinuating, “Well, hel-lo, last name’s Corcoran, isn’t it? What brings you here?”

  Corky sees it’s this guy he’d met once, Wexler? Winkler?—greeting him with a pretense of warmth, Corky’s usual style, though the guy, carrying a can of diet chocolate soda and several wrapped slices of cheese-and-pepperoni pizza, can’t shake Corky’s hand. Somehow, this is funny? Why’s the guy twitching and winking at him? And that wide grin? “Bet you don’t remember me?—I’m Wolf Wiegler,” the guy says, before Corky can say yes of course he remembers.

  Wolf Wiegler?—that’s a new one to Corky. He’d wonder if his leg’s being pulled except, up close, he can make out the ID W. Wiegler on the guy’s badly soiled lab coat.

  Corky says, pausing slightly, “First name’s Jerome.”

  “Yes? ‘Jerome’?” Wolf Wiegler’s squinting at Corky through his thick-lensed glasses, screwing up his face as if he’s doubtful. “What brings you here, then?” Laughing, showing uneven yellow-tinged babyish teeth as if he’s made a joke. Corky’s sense is that this is a character he’d do well to avoid except isn’t this just the kind of character who’ll spill secrets if he knows any
? Every municipal department has somebody like W. Wiegler on the staff.

  Corky says, “I just dropped by to see Ed Brophy, I haven’t run into Ed for a while,” and Wiegler says, sneering, “Oh our resident media hero,” an allusion to the fact that, some months ago, Corky’d nearly forgotten, Brophy had been interviewed on TV in connection with the Devane Johnson shooting, as chief medical examiner. Wiegler goes on to speak of Brophy in droll elliptical sardonic terms, calls him “Herr Dock-tor Brophy,” the men must be feuding, Corky knows nothing of this, nor wants to know. As he speaks, Wiegler continues to squint at Corky as if there’s some joke between them. So twitchy, a visible tic in his left cheek, Corky guesses this weird bastard must have some neurological problem which he hopes to hell isn’t catching. Corky has a penchant for picking up others’ habits, accents. Maybe Wiegler has a case of Tourette’s syndrome? That angry kind of humor? Corky read about Tourette’s in one of his paperback science books, his early-hour insomniac reading. The medical description struck him: A fight between an “It” and an “I.”

  Wiegler chatters in his sly, insinuating way, as if Corky was an accomplice in dislike of Brophy. He’s balancing his runny pizza slices atop the can of diet chocolate. Must be his lunch, brought back to his office. Imagine eating here! Amid these smells! Corky can almost feel sorry for the guy, must be lonely amid the stiffs, doing autopsies and lab work, whatever. The kind of character who’ll buttonhole anyone crossing his path. Corky’s calculating the strategic moment to cut in, inquire about Marilee Plummer, when Wiegler abruptly changes his tack. He says, with an aggressive snort, “Jerome, what’s this about a big Democrat shindig Monday night in Chateauguay? All the party elite in Union City? I wasn’t invited.”

  Corky’s surprised Wiegler has even heard of the dinner. But the guy must be a registered Democrat, he’d be on mailing lists. Corky says, “Sure you were invited, Wolf. All you needed to do was pay a thousand dollars.”

  Wiegler laughs loudly. Baring his damp stained baby’s teeth. The tic in his cheek jumping. “A thousand dollars! Are you serious, man! For dinner! For golden boy Slattery’s campaign!” The name Slattery rolls off Wiegler’s tongue in a way offensive to Corky. “I wouldn’t pay a thousand dollars for the Last Supper, man.”

  Corky, who’s practiced at faking laughs, laughs. It’s a habit like handshaking, back-slapping if you’re meeting voters. Sometimes, no matter the personal repugnance, it has to be done.

  Corky says, “It’s great to see you again, Wolf. You know, I was wondering—”

  But Wiegler’s still laughing at his own joke. The tic in his cheek is more pronounced. “The Last Supper, you know? Jesus Christ and His disciples? I wouldn’t pay a thousand dollars a plate there.”

  “Right,” says Corky affably. “Probably I wouldn’t either. What I was wondering, Wolf, is—”

  “Man, I wouldn’t pay five hundred dollars!”

  “Right—”

  “You know why?”

  “No, why?”

  “It’s too much to pay for a supper. That’s why.”

  Corky’s smile is strained. What is this asshole? Reminds Corky of one of Theresa’s fellow patients, years ago at the psychiatric hospital at Indian Lake. Poor bastard was diagnosed as schizophrenic-autistic. Babbling excitedly to himself but refusing to look anyone in the eye. Religious delusions kept him going.

  Theresa in her lucid moments, in fact there were prolonged days and even weeks of what you’d call lucidity, would speak sympathetically of her fellow sufferers, as if making excuses for them. They’re not of their right mind.

  Wiegler’s saying earnestly, “Don’t get me wrong, I voted for Vic Slattery, and I voted for Mayor Slattery—I always vote for Mayor Slattery. Otherwise, would I be here?”

  Corky cuts in, before Wiegler can go off on another riff, “I was wondering, Wolf, about this young woman Marilee Plummer?—died the other day? They said it was suicide, and—”

  Wiegler’s eyes behind his thick-lensed glasses narrow in an exaggerated squint. His face visibly stiffens. He even takes a step backward. He says, interrupting, “Brophy did it.”

  “Brophy did it—?”

  “Ran the tests on Plummer.”

  Corky has more questions, but he sees how Wiegler’s changed, cagey now, wanting to get away. Yet saying, almost it’s a taunt, such dopey humor, “—That colored girl, was it? You knew her, man? I’d’ve liked to know her better, but Brophy got in first.”

  Wiegler turns, walks on, brusque and rude and Corky hasn’t any choice but to follow. He sees Wiegler’s office ahead, door opened, the frosted-glass window of the door, W. WIEGLER, PATHOLOGY in black. Also a hand-lettered sign DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM which is a Latin Corky doesn’t know. Through the doorway Corky sees that Wiegler’s office is large but badly cluttered with files; daylight, filtered through an antiquated window thick with grime, has a sickly look. On top of Wiegler’s desk (which is a rolltop desk, battered but of good quality) is a dingy human skull given a startling jaunty look by the presence of a cigar stuck between its jaws.

  Seeing Corky wincing, Wiegler says, with mock solicitude, “Sorry, man, is she somebody you know?”—and laughs loudly.

  Corky laughs, not quite so loudly. He’s shrewd enough—not that this situation requires shrewdness—to see that Wiegler doesn’t want to answer any questions of his. He’s butting his nose in where it isn’t wanted, he’ll have to take some shit.

  Maybe later, another time, he can take revenge on this asshole?—reminds him of “Richie Richards” on WWAZ. A good solid right to the mouth. Corky’s sneaky left hook Coach had praised, except it lacked punch. Yes, someday.

  But to Corky’s surprise—and this too is calculated, orchestrated—Wiegler isn’t going into his office but continues down the corridor, carrying his pizza slices and his diet chocolate, calling out cheery hellos to colleagues, morgue attendants, as Corky trots along behind, managing to retain his affable smile. Wiegler glances back at him with a twitchy grin that looks angry, or maybe just amused. Though his black-plastic-rimmed eyeglasses and his bow tie (just visible beneath the soiled lab coat) give Wiegler a professorial air, there’s something thuggish about him. His head is round and hard as a bowling ball and his steel-brown hair lifts from it in a crewcut. Wiegler sees Corky studying him and says, with sly meaning, “You look spiffy, man, must be headed somewhere special?—not just here, huh, am I right?”

  Corky says, evenly, innocently, “Well, yes—I’m having drinks at the Slatterys’ later today. Vic and Sandra, that is.”

  Wiegler whistles. Flashing that malevolent grin. “‘Vic and Sandra’—no kidding? Man, you really move in elite circles, don’t you? I’m impressed.”

  The sarcasm is juvenile, it’s so crude. Corky feels his face flush but he’s thinking asshole, you asked for it. Smiles, nods. He’ll have to take some shit from this character if he persists here, figures it’s worth it.

  Except, where is Wiegler leading him?

  “You want to talk, man, c’mon, you’re welcome. I’m having my lunch, though. Also just starting a prep, you won’t mind?”—Wiegler’s cheerful and breezy, shoving open a heavy door with his shoulder, MORGUE NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS.

  Corky’s jaw must drop open, there’s a panic in his face but Wiegler pretends not to notice, humming to himself.

  The morgue? Wiegler’s taking him in the morgue?

  Corky’s got no choice but to follow Wiegler into the morgue?

  Wiegler’s going to eat his fucking lunch in the morgue?

  Corky follows blind, dazed, still a strained sick smile on his face. O.K., Corky will call the fucker’s bluff. Nobody eats his lunch in the morgue does he?—must be the guy’s only kidding. Maybe it isn’t personal animosity against Corky Corcoran but just some routine they do here, pulling a greenhorn’s legs. Him being on the City Council, and all. Maybe that’s it?

  But Wiegler’s serious enough. To Corky’s horror, he is.

  Wiegler’s striding
along, biting into one of his pizza slices, strings of cheese hanging down from his mouth like collapsed tusks. Laughing and waving hello at two morgue attendants, the two burly men Corky saw a minute ago in the corridor, who are dumping the body off the gurney and onto a metal slab. A body heavy as a sandbag. A body that thuds. So Corky flinches feeling the pain the man inside the body would feel if he was still inside the body which of course he isn’t. Jesus Mary and Joseph flies through Corky’s head pray for me now and at the hour of my death Amen.

  A prayer out of Corky’s lost childhood, thirty years ago.

  “How’s it going, guys?” Wiegler cries merrily.

  “O.K., Dr. Wiegler,” says one young man, and the other, a good-natured shrug, “Can’t complain.”

  Wiegler’s the noisy bossy kind on the job, gives the attendants brisk instructions about “prepping” their boy. Corky stands to one side waiting, not listening. Not looking. Except he sees the oversized dusky-brown feet, tender pink bare soles, long naked legs, dark-woolly scrotum out of which something sprouts fleshy and pinkly raw like a swollen goiter. Asshole don’t look.

  Corky doesn’t listen for fear of hearing too much, he’s a sensitive soul in the presence of Death. Except he gathers the black man’s only a kid, nineteen. Dead of gunshot wounds in the chest. And he was a junkie, arms and legs riddled with track marks.

  Wiegler moves on, toward the rear of the morgue. Corky numbly follows.

  “I’d offer you some of my pizza, Jerome, except there isn’t much. Sorry!”

  Corky mumbles it’s all right.

  “Yeah, man?—what’d you say?”—turning to Corky with exaggerated solicitude.

  Corky mumbles louder, “Thanks, it’s all right.”

  Wiegler grins expansively. “Some people, they don’t like cold pizza anyway. Turns their stomach. And the crusts are hard, you got to have good gastric juices to process them.”

  Corky hasn’t been down to the morgue for years but it’s all familiar to him. He’d forgotten, but no he hasn’t, it’s all there, waiting. Cormac on that table (empty today), Hock on that table (where Wiegler seems to be headed). The smell, the smells. Despite the giant ventilator and rattling fans. Now it comes back, this chemical-bloody-bowel smell. Except there’s something more, a smell of stale or rancid food. This, Corky doesn’t remember.

 

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