Mortal Remains

by Mary Ann Fraser

MEASURE TWICE, BOX ONCE.

  I jabbed the flashing playback button on the answering machine. It was West Hill Linens, informing us that they were suspending our service due to nonpayment. Rachel, who had snuck down to the office to catch up on bills, overheard. “Probably better not to mention this to your father.”

  She didn’t need to tell me. I hardly recognized the man who’d returned home from the ICU two weeks ago. It wasn’t only his appearance, which was like a pencil point worn to the wood; it was his worn spirit. To make matters worse, his life had been whittled down to a monotonous routine of bed rest, doctor visits, and trips to the pharmacy.

  To break the tedium, Rachel sometimes walked him out to Paradise to read or doze beneath the apple tree, which was showing signs of life again. Once I caught him sitting with Adam, who was discussing the merits of the new compost bin he and Nana Jo were building beside the shed. “Nothing improves soil like decaying organic material,” Adam had boasted. Later I teased that I would get him a T-shirt that said GOT ROT?

  Despite the garden’s improvements, though, Dad still griped about the dead lilac bush I yanked out of the garden a while ago. Never mind that it had been leafless; it was a gift from a former client. Who knew my father could be so sentimental? Must have been all those defibrillations. I tried explaining to him that the bush was never going to bloom again, but he didn’t care. Rachel said to give him time, that he’d get over it. But if my father could hold a grudge over a dead shrub, how would he ever forgive me for killing the family business to impress a transport driver? How would I ever forgive myself?

  Since Dad was not allowed to drive, Rachel and Evan took turns carting him back and forth between doctors, leaving me to cover the business. The phone and doorbell rarely rang these days, so I filled the time searching for a way to salvage the mess I’d made. I looked into what it would cost to build our own crematorium. I explored ways to advertise our services by reaching out to local senior centers and florists. But hiring an architect, acquiring permits, and printing brochures all took money we didn’t have.

  I watched Rachel shuffle papers and bills at Dad’s desk, but the piles weren’t getting any smaller. “You mind checking the mail?” she asked, thumbing through a wad of receipts.

  “Sure,” I said, grateful for an excuse to stretch my legs.

  I removed several envelopes from the box beneath the mail slot and opened the door to check for any packages. A man in a tattered windbreaker and duct-taped helmet stood at the far end of the walk, staring up at the bedroom windows. I realized it was the same man who pretended to fix his bike chain in front of our house back when reporters were still hanging about. Sturbridge was certainly determined to dig up something to use against us, but honestly he could have done better than this guy.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  The stranger grinned at me with coffee-stained teeth. “You work here?”

  “I do.”

  “You the girl who found the boy at the old Lassiter place?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Is he here?”

  Why would Sturbridge be interested in Adam? Maybe this guy wasn’t one of his snoops after all. A reporter then? “Look, we’ve—”

  Before I could explain that we’d already told the reporters all there was to tell, Rachel appeared beside me. “Lily, you seen your Dad’s readers? I can’t find them anywhere.”

  “He left them on the kitchen table this morning.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Thanks.”

  When I looked back, the stranger was pedaling away.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Not a reporter, but funeral homes do tend to attract less-than-savory characters—especially when said funeral home has been all over the news. A horrible thought occurred to me. What if this was one of the guys who attacked Adam in the alley? If he was, I’d just confirmed where Adam lived.

  Back in the office I placed the stack of mail on the corner of Dad’s desk. Rachel returned from fetching Dad’s glasses and flipped through the bundle. “This one’s for you,” she said, holding up a large padded envelope.

  I read the return address. “Oh, I know what this is! Is Adam around?”

  “I think he left early this morning again. Said something about a side job.”

  “He’s been helping out Mr. Zmira.” I didn’t mention he was doing it to earn back an old lockbox. Let her think it was out of “fiscal responsibility,” a term my father was fond of using even though he couldn’t keep his own business afloat.

  With me holding down the office and Adam working for Mr. Zmira and assisting Evan, we hadn’t seen much of each other lately. I told myself it was for the best. I’d misjudged José. I couldn’t afford to repeat the same mistake with Adam.

  But there’s no rulebook for dreamland. There I could freely play out my misguided hopes and desires. In some of my dreams Adam and I were in the dark doing things I couldn’t imagine doing in the light. Those were the dreams that made me eager for sleep. But in others we were adrift in deep, churning waters. We clung to each other like human life rafts, taking each rise and fall as they came, while below the surface we kicked wildly to keep our heads above water.

  I took the envelope along with the spare key to the cottage. Nana was in her workshop, attacking several planks of cedar with a rotary sander. Sawdust and sound billowed from her open door, so I went around back and knocked loudly on Adam’s door. When there was no answer, I unlocked it and entered.

  Like Evan, Adam had the habit of leaving on lights when he left a room. The door to the pass-through connecting to the bathroom and workshop beyond was closed, but it was not enough to seal out the brain-numbing racket of Nana hard at work. No wonder Adam spent so little time here.

  On the floor beside the bed were a pair of dirty jeans and a ripped tee, a teetering pile of gardening books, and a half-eaten granola bar. His newly minted name tag rested atop the dresser. Other than the few items hanging in the wardrobe, that was it. The sum of his possessions would fill a grocery bag.

  I peeled open the envelope and emptied it of its contents—two sheets of glow-in-the-dark stars. Using the enclosed constellation map as a guide, I climbed onto the bed and began pressing the stars, one by one, to the ceiling, smiling smugly to myself as I imagined the look on Adam’s face later that night when he turned out the lights. I dragged the rickety ladder-back chair from the corner and, despite visions of falling off and breaking my neck, continued pasting stars until both sheets were empty. In twenty minutes I’d transformed his ceiling into a galaxy.

  Adam would be back soon. Time to clean up and clear out. I reached under the bed to retrieve the envelope from where it fell, and my nails clinked against something hard and tinny. I pulled it out. His father’s lockbox. How long had he had this?

  The door leading to the pass-through creaked open, and in strutted Adam, a towel wrapped loosely about his waist. Nana had been making so much noise in the next room, I hadn’t realized he’d been in the bathroom showering this whole time. I leaped to my feet, nudging the box back under the bed with the heel of my foot. “Adam, I thought you were at Zmira’s. What are you doing here?”

  “I finished up early. And, if I’m not mistaken, this is my room? Why are you here?”

  “I . . . I . . .” My attention drifted to three water droplets racing down his chest. They coursed over the small tattoo on his upper torso, meandered over his abs, and finally disappeared into the terry-cloth towel, the middle droplet the victor.

  “Lily?”

  My head snapped up.

  “Oh,” I said lamely. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Okay. I’m surprised.”

  “No, I mean . . .” I pointed to the stars on the ceiling. “I know it doesn’t look like much now, but tonight—”

  “The night sky.” Head back, he turned a full circle, reciting the names of each constellation. He sounded pleased, although he noted that Ursa Major had an extra leg.

&
nbsp; “Here, I can fix that.”

  “No need. It’ll make me think of you.”

  “In a good way, I hope.”

  “In the best way possible.”

  I smiled, not knowing what else to say but also not wanting to leave. “Oh, by the way, a man came by the house a little while ago asking about you. Weird dude. Were you expecting anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he rode off before I could find out who he was, but I thought I’d mention it. Can’t be too careful, you know.”

  He looked curiously at me. “Right.”

  The end of his towel slid free. He caught it in time, but the embarrassment was clearly mine. “Give me a minute,” he said. He scooped up the jeans from the floor and ducked back into the pass-through.

  I wanted a better look at the lockbox, but it had slid farther back than I expected. I scrambled onto my belly to retrieve it.

  “Looking for something?” Adam had come back for his shirt.

  “I can explain,” I said, my voice muffled by mattress and bedding.

  “No need. I see now the stars were an excuse to snoop through my things.”

  I shimmied out from under the bed and held up the box. “Looks to me like neither of us trusts the other.”

  “I was going to tell you.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we open it together.”

  From the way he balked, it was obvious he did mind. “Not possible without the key. I’ve tried.”

  “That explains the dents. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait. Where are you—?”

  I marched into Nana Jo’s workshop. She was hunched over a bench, a wadded rag in one hand, steel wool in the other. Walnut-colored stain freckled her face. “Do you still have Grandpa’s set of lockpicks?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You planning a heist?”

  “No, it’s for Adam. He has his father’s lockbox but not the key.”

  “I think they’re in that crate with your grandfather’s padlock collection. Over beside the planer. You know how to use them?”

  “Nope, but that’s what the internet’s for.”

  I found the picks, printed a quick set of instructions in the office, and was back in under fifteen minutes. By then Adam had run a comb through his hair and was fully dressed.

  Together we knelt at the side of the bed, the lockbox between us. With my finger I traced the strange circle-within-circle design etched into the lid. “Look, it’s the same as on the fallout shelter hatch.”

  Adam crossed his arms. “So?”

  “There must be a connection, don’t you think?”

  “Forget that. How are we going to open it?”

  “We’re going to pick the lock.”

  “But there’s only one lock. What’s to pick?”

  “Must you always be so literal?” I unrolled the canvas pouch containing the lockpicks and spread it on the floor along with the printout. “It says here that most locks consist of pairs of pins that, when properly aligned, allow the plug to turn and the lock to open. All we need is the right size pick.”

  It took several tries, but eventually I found one that fit. “Now, according to the instructions, the trick is in recognizing the sound the pins make when they slip into place.” I tried first, but Adam’s hearing proved sharper than mine.

  “Last one,” he said. He twisted the pick. There was a faint tick and the lock released. He lifted the lid and, heads together, we peered into the box.

  RULE #21

  THERE ARE SOME REQUESTS THAT SHOULD NOT AND CANNOT BE HONORED.

  A plain white envelope addressed to N. M. Lassiter with an Oakland, California, postmark and no return address rested atop a house deed, a key, and a pink slip for a car long gone. There was no will and not a single birth, marriage, or death certificate to vouch for lives lived or lost. It was as if Adam never existed. The answers I’d hoped for were not there.

  Adam shuffled through the papers, setting aside the envelope and pocketing the key, but not before I noted that it had the same engraved emblem as the box and the hatch. The hatch had been bolted, not locked, so it was probably a spare key for the box but not a very useful one if it was locked inside.

  “See this,” I said, my finger circling my face. “This is what disappointment looks like.”

  “What were you expecting? Gemstones?”

  He knew what I was after—proof he wasn’t lying about his identity. But I was not about to admit it. “Maybe. You were acting like whatever was in here was a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” he said, holding up the envelope and giving it a wave. “By Fortuna, this letter will tell me who came to the house the night my father died.”

  “For tuna? What do fish have to do with it?”

  He looked at me like I was an imbecile. “The goddess Fortuna.”

  Man, I’m starting to take things as literally as him. “What makes you think this letter can tell us anything?”

  “It arrived the day before the explosion. After he read it, Neil locked it in this box, then went through the house, bolting doors and closing all the shades. At first I assumed it was more of his usual paranoia. But the next night Neil woke me saying there was a man at the gate and that I needed to go. I asked for a few minutes to pack, but he refused. Said there was no time. He took me to the hatch hidden in the shed and told me to climb inside. He promised he would come for me as soon as it was safe. He promised.”

  If the letter could tell us anything about the man who came to the house that night, it would be well worth the effort it took to retrieve it. “Go on, read it.”

  Adam removed a single sheet of yellow paper from the envelope, took one look at it, and passed it to me. “I can’t.”

  I could see why. It was in cursive, each rushed word flowing into the next. With stubborn determination, I worked it out.

  Neil:

  Don’t think anything has changed between us. What’s done is done, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t warn you if I thought you were in danger. Despite what you think of me, I’m not that vindictive.

  Today I received a phone call—the one we’ve both been dreading. Our conversation was brief. Miles said he’d been released early on good behavior, and he needed to reach you. I explained that you and I had not spoken since the divorce, and I was not sure if you were still living at the old house or even alive. I don’t know if he believed me, but it’s probably only a matter of time before he comes looking for you. Considering you’re the one who wrongly sent him to prison, figure on it being sooner than later. Hopefully you’ve long since abandoned your lofty ideas and moved to where he can’t find you. But knowing you as I do—your ambition, your competitive nature, and, yes, your arrogance—I suspect you proceeded with your plans. I pray I’m wrong.

  There. I’ve cleared my conscience. The rest is up to you and fate. For your sake I hope he can find it within his heart to forgive you. I never could. Because of you, I lost my only son, my dear, sweet Adam.

  God save your soul,

  Veronica

  “Veronica,” I repeated. I unfolded my legs and tapped the letter with my finger. “She says right there that she lost her son Adam, so you can’t be Adam Lassiter.”

  “She probably means she lost her son when she and Neil separated. She doesn’t mean her son died. What it does prove is that she felt she had to warn Neal against the person he sent to prison.”

  “Wrongly sent to prison,” I corrected. “You have to take this to the police.”

  “Why? She didn’t. There must have been a reason.”

  I considered this. “I think she was afraid.”

  “I agree.”

  “Did Neil ever say anything about someone going to prison? Or who Miles is?”

  Adam shook his head. “He made a practice of telling me as little as possible about his affairs.” He took the letter from my hand and stuffed it back into the lockbox, not even bothering to return it to the envelope. “Well, that’s it then.” He s
tood and held the door open for me, his less-than-subtle way of telling me we were done here.

  “That’s it? If this Veronica is your mother, you have to find her. How else are you going to get any answers?”

  “We’re not. You yourself said that all traces of any Lassiters were erased. If she wanted me in her life, she knew where to find me. Now let it go.”

  I couldn’t, but he didn’t need to know that—or that I’d pocketed the envelope.

  RULE #22

  EMBALMING CAN BUY ONLY SO MUCH TIME.

  I typed Veronica Lassiter, Oakland, California into the search bar and hit ENTER. Nothing came up. No surprise there. She was either divorced and remarried or going by her maiden name.

  Sure, I questioned my motivations for so doggedly pursuing this. Was it for Adam, or for my own peace of mind? It didn’t matter. If I didn’t keep looking, I’d always wonder, always doubt.

  I scrolled through screen after screen of birth, marriage, immigration, and death records—all the significant events in a person’s life or death that might have found their way into a digital archive. I located no Lassiters and only two Veronicas. One had been dead for three years, and the other moved to Minnesota four months ago. Then I remembered that back when Nana Jo was into genealogy, she subscribed to a newsletter written by a local historian. Sometimes it included records or articles related to the early pioneer families of Smith’s Hollow.

  I asked to borrow the bundle of newsletters and began the tedious task of thumbing through each issue. I’d about given up hope when I stumbled onto a listing of local marriage records. And there it was: Family: Lassiter. Veronica Marie Forbes, married June 16, 1984, to Neil Michael Lassiter. I marked the page with a postcard mailer, snatched up the envelope from Veronica’s letter, and raced out to the cottage.

  I pounded on the bedroom door. “Adam! Adam, are you in there?” He opened the door. “I found her. I found your mother. Look.” I tapped my finger on the page marked with the postcard. “It’s her. I can prove it.” I held up the envelope and pointed to the address on the outside. “See, this letter was sent to N. M. Lassiter—Neil Michael Lassiter. It’s his wife! Well, his ex-wife. Your mother. I’m certain of it.”