by Sara Blaedel
Her voice was wispy and anguished, as if she expected someone would blame her for not discovering the man living above them had been dead so long.
“But you’re the ones who found him,” Ilka said. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Lots of people don’t have good neighbors who look out for each other. Of course you should be able to travel. No one could know this would happen.”
Ilka had no idea where all these words were coming from. Just as she didn’t know if she was trying to comfort them or if she was stalling to avoid going into the living room.
She felt a cold wind blowing from in there, and she remembered to breathe in through her mouth, as Artie had recommended. He’d already brought the stretcher in, and now he handed her a pair of gloves.
“What about a mask?” she whispered before entering the room.
He shook his head and explained that masks were necessary only when there was a threat of infection. And when dealing with the homeless, because you could never know what they might have.
“This guy here is okay. It’s not a pretty sight, but there’s no danger of catching something.”
Ilka pulled on her gloves and followed him. She noticed the bulky furniture and heavy picture frames, big pillows on the sofa, wide armchairs. Everything was nice, attractive. Ed McKenna was on the floor by the open bedroom door, lying on his side with his arms folded. His dog lay curled up beside him.
Ilka froze. Seeing them lying there felt like a punch to the gut. Loneliness and solidarity. Together they had left the world behind. She felt Artie’s eyes on her, aware that he was giving her a minute. The sight must also have hit him hard.
She nodded and joined him as he squatted down to turn McKenna over. Standing over the body, Ilka realized her anxiety had disappeared. Sure, it stank in there, and he was bloated, his skin was gray, but she’d thought it would be worse.
They carried the stretcher over and pulled the wheels up so it lay on the floor beside him. “You take hold of his legs; I’ll grab his shoulders,” Artie said. He was on his knees, ready to go.
Ilka leaned down and gripped the back of his knees.
“Get a good hold on him; he’ll be middle-heavy when we lift him,” Artie said. He counted to three. “Kneel down and lift with your legs. Tighten your stomach muscles; careful with your back.”
Ilka concentrated on lifting and moving him slowly, not looking at him until he was on the stretcher. The skin on the left side of his face was missing. The exposed muscle was dark, but in one spot his cheekbone was visible.
“Might be insects,” Artie said as they strapped the body down. “We’ll come back for the dog.”
Ilka nodded. She felt so sad it had taken so long to discover Ed McKenna was dead. That no one had missed him. Except his dog. They carried him slowly down the steps, Artie in front, Ilka leaning over a bit to level out the stretcher. The couple had returned to their apartment, but now they came out. “What about everything up there?” the man asked.
Artie shrugged and said they would have to contact the police, to hear if he had any relatives.
“He does; Ed has a daughter,” the woman said from behind her husband.
“But you haven’t contacted her?”
The couple looked at each other before shaking their heads. “Matter of fact, we haven’t. We should have, of course we should, but coming home and finding him like this, it shocked us. We called the police at once.”
“We don’t have her number, either,” the man added. “She lives somewhere over in upstate New York, but I don’t know where.”
“Most likely the police have found her; she’s probably on her way. Or she’ll show up in the morning.” Artie was reassuring them; Ilka was very surprised he’d shaken off the drinking and sex and was acting as if he’d just been sitting around, waiting to be called to take care of Ed McKenna. “We’ll also speak with his family. They may want him buried closer to them.”
He pushed the stretcher into the car and told Ilka to get in, that he would get the dog.
She nodded. Though it hadn’t been as bad as she had feared, she was relieved to not have to go back up there. She watched him come down with the dog, which he’d packed in a sheet. He slammed the rear door.
“Okay, we’ll drive back and get him and the dog taken care of, and then I’d appreciate you driving me home. You mind if I roll down the window and smoke a cigarette?”
She shook her head and held her fingers out toward him in a V.
He looked questioningly at her; then he tapped an extra cigarette out of the pack. They smoked in silence as Ilka drove back to the funeral home. After she tossed the butt out the window, she held her hand out, asking for another.
She couldn’t stop thinking about McKenna and the dog. The loneliness. She chain-smoked three of Artie’s cigarettes before reaching the funeral home.
12
Ilka dropped Artie off and finally arrived home just before midnight.
She left the engine running as she got out and punched in the code to open the garage door. The cat appeared and snaked around her legs as she walked back. Gently she pushed the cat away, got in behind the wheel, and maneuvered the big, klutzy vehicle into the garage. The cat was right there when she shut off the engine and stepped out.
“Okay, okay,” she muttered as she closed the garage door and yawned. She called the cat to follow her through the garage and into the passageway. Then she went into the kitchen for the rest of the grilled fish.
She made small talk to herself as she walked; she knew she would fall asleep if she didn’t keep moving. Mumbling helped her cope with the deep stillness of the funeral home. And the darkness.
She laid the fish on a small plate and opened the door to the carport just outside. “Dinnertime, kitty,” she called. The cat hopped up on its hind legs before she could set the plate down. “You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you?”
She shook her head at herself and let the cat do what cats do. She walked upstairs. The sacks full of her father’s clothes and shoes were gone; Sister Eileen must have taken them. Ilka liked the idea of his clothes having a new life somewhere else, worn by people unaware that the dark suits had been a funeral home director’s uniform.
The burritos on the desk were still unopened, but she was too tired to care about food.
Ilka had also been too exhausted to pull the curtains before collapsing on the bed. It was still dark outside when she woke up. She lay there listening, disoriented and unsure of what had woken her. A thud from something falling. Or was it a door slammed shut? She concentrated as she lay staring up into the dark, trying to isolate the sound, but now everything was silent. She’d just closed her eyes when she heard it again. And again. Had she forgotten to close the door after feeding the cat?
Still half-asleep, she swung her legs out of bed, stuck her feet in her shoes, and wrapped a sweater around her shoulders.
She glanced at the clock: three thirty. She’d slept some, but not much. Out by the stairway, she fumbled for the light switch, then started down. Somewhere she heard an engine, or perhaps a transformer. The ceiling light hummed.
Halfway down, she stopped. She heard the noise again, and now she was sure a door had been slammed. Her footsteps were muffled by the thick dark blue carpet as she made her way through the office and past the kitchen. She took a deep breath and opened the door to the passageway.
The silence and darkness outside pressed in on her. The door leading to the carport was closed; she hadn’t forgotten that one. Ilka walked over to the door to the cold room. Locked. She opened it slowly and turned on the light. The man and his dog still lay on the stretcher. She shivered. The two coffins were in the same place as the last time she’d been there. Maybe she’d heard the ventilation system? It rattled slightly, the only noise in the room.
She shook her head at herself; then she walked over to the garage and punched in the code. It was dark in there, too. When she finally found the light switch, the fluorescents sputtered a few m
oments before showering the entire garage in white.
Nothing. Refrigerator shut and garage door down. Everything exactly the way it had been when she had parked the hearse.
Don’t be so stupid! she told herself. She was letting her imagination run wild over the slightest noise—ridiculous! As if she believed that the dead could rise and walk around. And she’d never heard of anyone breaking into a funeral home. What was there to steal? Formaldehyde and coffins. Get hold of yourself!
She switched the lights off and shut the door, checked the garage doorknob an extra time to make sure it was locked, then walked back upstairs. Relax, she told herself. In two or three days, she’d be on her way back to Copenhagen.
She had no idea whether ten minutes or an hour had gone by when she was awakened again. The noise was back, and this time she was certain. She lay a few minutes before resolutely throwing off the comforter, pulling on a pair of pants, and slipping her shoes on. She was determined to shove out this final shred of the fear of darkness inside her. At no time had she been bothered by sleeping over a morgue. The dead would be the last to come up here and haunt her. But rattling noises in dark, strange places had never been her cup of tea. Usually she could control her fear, but she was too exhausted to stop her imagination from running away with her. She tried to calm herself while sneaking downstairs. What she really needed was a decent meal, a good screwing, and a good night’s sleep. Then she’d feel strong enough to handle these ghosts. She realized she’d stood up her Tinder date. She’d completely forgotten about him.
Down on the first floor, Ilka switched the passageway light on. She was determined to check every door. If she didn’t get at least a few more hours’ sleep, she would be too spaced-out to think clearly when signing the transfer agreement over at the Oldhams.
Door to the carport—locked. Preparation room—locked. Cold room—locked. Garage—locked. She punched in the code, turned on the light, and was on her way to the big garage door when she spotted him. In shock now, she saw the open middle drawer of the refrigerator, the empty steel tray pulled out. Mike Gilbert lay on the floor, twisted and battered. Dark splotches of blood on his face stood out as grotesque shadows. He lay on his back, his arms spread like someone being arrested and patted down, his legs splayed out crookedly.
Ilka’s heart hammered as she stood frozen in the middle of the garage, staring at the dead man. Silence; that’s all there was now, a deep silence. Except for the low hum from the ventilation fan. She had no idea what to do, and Artie wouldn’t be coming in for several hours. Instinctively she backed up until she hit the wall. Her legs prickled; her arms felt weak. What in hell was going on?
A thought struck her: There might be someone there. Without budging an inch, she surveyed the entire garage; then she knelt down to look under the two trolleys. No one there. She was alone, she was sure. Almost sure, anyway. She struggled to think clearly; mostly she wanted to run up to her room and lock the door and wait for Artie. Her phone was in the room. Why hadn’t she brought it along? Idiot, she muttered to herself. Then she realized she couldn’t just leave the deceased lying there on the floor. It was undignified; it looked all wrong.
Slowly she approached him, but then she turned to get the stretcher over by the wall. She maneuvered it around the coffins, pushing it in front of her like a shield. Sweat ran down her back as she wrestled to put up the wheels. The noise she made was unnaturally loud. Should she call Artie? The police? Get Sister Eileen?
Her fingers had forgotten how to work together; she couldn’t find the mechanism to release the wheels so she could lower the stretcher to the floor. Finally, though, she succeeded. Simply doing something helped her fight off panic. Without thinking, she leaned over to take hold of Mike Gilbert’s torso.
She slipped her arms under his shoulders to get the best possible hold on him, but suddenly she pulled them back, an instinctive reaction. What was she doing? Could this be considered a crime scene? And it felt as if she’d grabbed a pile of wet sand. Scared now, she looked down at the man, but then she took hold again, squatted down, and slipped her arms underneath his body. She tried to lift him, but it was hopeless. Only now, sitting with her arms around the dead body, did she realize she might have been mistaken the first time she was down here.
But she had checked everywhere. Ilka was sure he hadn’t been lying on the floor. She fought down her uncertainty. It must have happened after she’d gone back to bed.
She considered again whether to leave the body there until Artie came, let him decide what to do. Her palms were sweaty, the back of her T-shirt wet. Her eyes darted around the garage, into the nooks and crannies.
She gave it one more shot, but it was impossible to lift him by herself. Instead of going back to bed, though, she opened the garage door and walked over to the addition. It was much too quiet outside, in contrast to all the noise in her head. It felt all wrong. And then there was the mauled body on the floor a few yards away.
The darkness made it difficult to make out what was written on the doors, but the one down at the end seemed to be the main entrance. She pushed the doorbell hard, let go, pushed it again. And again, and again, until a light came on in a room facing the parking lot.
She retreated a few steps and waited until Sister Eileen came to the door in a nightgown.
“I’m sorry,” Ilka began. Suddenly she realized she was standing there in a sleep shirt, her hair tangled up. “Something’s happened in the garage. I need your help.”
The nun frowned and shook her head. She pulled the door shut behind her, as if she was afraid Ilka might push past her and make an even bigger nuisance of herself.
“Someone has been in there. Someone pulled Mike Gilbert out of the refrigerator and left him on the floor.”
“Wasn’t the door locked?” the sister asked, as if that changed something about the fact that he was lying on the floor.
Ilka shrugged. “He’s lying over there; you have to come help me. I can’t pick him up by myself.” She was tired, but this had to be done. Now.
Sister Eileen nodded and went back inside. A moment later she came out wearing her practical office shoes, with a long cardigan wrapped around her.
They walked back to the garage without speaking. The garage door was still open; the light inside fanned out into the yard.
“I don’t like being woken up in the night,” the nun finally said when they reached the garage.
“I don’t either,” Ilka replied shortly. She made a gesture, signaling that she wanted Sister Eileen to grab his legs, while she would take his arms. “If we can lift him up on the stretcher, we’ll find a way to get him over on the steel tray.”
They counted to three and lifted. This time Ilka ignored the feel of the dead body.
After carrying him to the refrigerator, the nun asked, “Is he wet?” She pointed to the large wet blotch covering his battered chest. Ilka leaned over and felt his hair, which was wet and sticky. It gleamed in the glaring ceiling light. She pulled her hand away.
Gasoline, was her first thought. She straightened up and looked around. If someone had planned to cremate Mike Gilbert directly on the garage floor, the entire funeral home would probably have burned down. But she should have been able to smell gas right off when she’d leaned over and lifted. She crouched down again and sniffed; then she sat for a moment and gathered herself before standing up and drying her hands on her T-shirt. “Urine. Somebody pissed all over him.”
Ilka studied the broken face for a moment, the entire right side caved in. Not that she was an expert on these things, but it looked like his cheekbone was crushed. There was a hollow under his eye, as if a bone was missing or had been pulverized just under the skin.
She looked away and closed her eyes. Hoped that Artie would show up early so he could make Mike Gilbert look presentable before his mother saw him. Otherwise there was a rough day ahead for Shelby. Ilka took a deep breath and nodded at Sister Eileen to help lift him onto the steel tray; then they pushed hi
m back into the refrigerator.
After shutting the door, the nun shook her head in irritation and left without a word of good-bye.
“Okay, well, good night, then,” Ilka said to the closed door.
13
It was a terrible night’s sleep. Adrenaline surged through Ilka’s body, and several times during the night she had convinced herself she was hearing sounds in the garage. Half-asleep, she heard the dead coming to life and walking around the building, pulling each other out of the refrigerator, drinking coffee in the kitchen. She hadn’t dared go down, and anyway, she knew it was all in her head. In the moments she was wide awake, she’d pulled the comforter tightly to her and thought about how strange it was, being stuck in the middle of the daily life her father had led for so many years, so far away from her. All those years she had needed him in her own life.
It wasn’t because she was any closer to understanding him after these few days in Racine. But his physical presence felt strong to her. She was surrounded by her father, his odor and belongings and the people he’d been with every day. Still, though, she hadn’t learned more about him, nor did she have the faintest idea how abandoning them had left its mark on him.
He had asked for a divorce less than two years after he left. At that time her mother was still struggling to turn the funeral home into a profitable business that could be sold without too big a loss. Ilka hadn’t been aware of her reaction to his request—Ilka hadn’t even known about the divorce before it was final. One evening her mother came into her room while she was doing homework.
“Your father and I are divorced,” was all she said. Ilka still remembered the first thing she thought: He must have come home. Which meant she could see him. But her mother explained that he was still in the US, that their lawyers handled everything.
She’d rested her hand on Ilka’s shoulder. “It means he’s decided to stay over there. Without us.”