September Mourn

by Mary Daheim

  Judith shook her head in an impatient manner. “No. Remember what we talked about earlier? Where were the emergency personnel? Where was the coast guard? Where,” Judith went on, her eyes suddenly bright with excitement, “was the boat that should have taken the Wickers to the hospital at Laurel Harbor?”

  Renie didn’t respond immediately. When she did, she spoke in an uncharacteristically studious voice: “Harry—Burrell—was in charge of transporting people to and from the islands, just like Rafe is now. At least we think Burrell was on Chavez at that time. But something happened. What? A fifth of Old Sluggo?”

  “Maybe,” Judith allowed. She was now sitting with both feet on the floor, her chin on her fists. “Doc would know. Let’s go see him.”

  Renie’s mild protests were overcome. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock. Doc would still be up. Of course he’d be reluctant to talk about the tragedy. But a murder had occurred, and the residents of Chavez Island had to start opening up.

  “Doc strikes me as a basically decent man,” Judith said, putting on her jacket. “He’d want to see justice done.”

  Renie’s face showed an emotion that for once Judith didn’t readily recognize. As soon as her cousin spoke, Judith realized it was apprehension. “Maybe,” Renie said quietly, “Doc already did. Sometimes people think of murder as justice. I think they call it justifiable homicide.”

  The ground floor of the Wicker Basket was dark when Judith and Renie arrived. Judith knocked several times but got no answer. A single light shone in a dormer window on the second floor. Judith wondered if Doc might have fallen asleep over a book or while watching TV.

  “Rats!” Judith grumbled. “I guess it’ll have to wait until morning.” She gave one last look at the amber glow behind the curtains.

  The cousins had just started back down the road when a familiar voice called out to them. It was Doc. He doffed his Greek fisherman’s cap and hurried in their direction.

  “I never get late visitors,” he said with a smile that struck Judith as strained. “I just came back from calling on the Carrs. What can I do for you?”

  Now that she was face-to-face with Doc, Judith felt disconcerted. “Have you got a minute, Doc? We’d like to talk to you about something…important.”

  Somewhat to Judith’s surprise, Doc didn’t invite the cousins upstairs. Instead, he ushered them into the store and all the way back to a small room which he apparently used as an office. The old oak desk was piled high with invoices, shipping forms, newspapers, magazines, catalogues, and—which Judith found poignant—medical journals. There was only one chair, but Doc offered it readily.

  “I’ll clear off a place on the desk,” he said, “for whichever of you doesn’t need the chair. I can stand.”

  Renie was already edging onto the desk, so Judith took the chair. She felt faintly foolish, with Doc standing rather stiffly by the door and Renie trying not to knock various items off the desk.

  “It’s about Harry,” Judith began, knowing her eyes were filling with sympathy for Doc. “You remember him as Harry Hodge.”

  All the color drained from Doc’s face. He removed the fisherman’s cap and wiped his brow with an unsteady hand. “Harry Hodge,” he said in a hollow voice. “Harry…Hodge! My God!”

  Doc passed out.

  “You can’t call a doctor when the doctor’s passed out,” Renie said reasonably after Judith urged her cousin to get help. “You get smelling salts or throw a bucket of water on him or something.”

  “Yeah, right, sure,” Judith muttered, kneeling beside Doc and feeling for a pulse. “He’s alive. That’s an improvement over some of the people we’ve met on Chavez Island.”

  Indeed, Doc was already beginning to stir. He groaned, put his hands to his eyes, and grimaced. Then he was staring up at the cousins with tired, unfocused eyes. “Oh, my!” he said in a weak voice. “How stupid of me! I must have forgotten to take my blood pressure medicine.” Clumsily, he tried to get up. Judith gave him a hand.

  “You take the chair,” she said. “Or would you rather let us help you get upstairs?”

  “I’ll be all right,” Doc assured Judith. “Maybe it was just shock. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that name spoken.”

  “But not so long since you saw him last,” Judith said, suddenly aware that Renie was no longer in the little office.

  “What?” Doc was sitting back in the chair, adjusting his glasses, which had fallen off when he fainted. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Harry Hodge,” Judith repeated. “Harold Burrell Hodge.”

  To Judith’s mystification, Doc frowned, then nodded slowly. “So it was Harry. I couldn’t help but wonder.”

  Renie returned, bearing bottled water and a paper cup. “I thought you might want some of this,” she said. “I took it off the shelf. Do you give yourself a discount?”

  Doc allowed himself a small smile. “I pilfer now and then,” he replied. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  Judith, who was now half-leaning, half-sitting on the desk, waited patiently for Doc to finish his drink. At last, he resumed speaking. “When I heard that someone named Hodge was coming to Chavez, naturally I wondered. But Hodge isn’t an uncommon name. Maybe I didn’t really want to know. I’d spent twenty-five years trying to forget. Even after he’d been killed, and I saw his body, I still wasn’t sure it was him. Twenty-five years is a long time.”

  Judith recalled Doc’s reaction upon seeing Burrell at the bottom of the steps. She also remembered that afterward, he’d supposedly felt ill. “You were 99 percent convinced, though, weren’t you?”

  Doc tipped his head to one side. The glasses were still crooked. “Well…I wouldn’t say that. Expired people always look different. So much of what we recognize is mannerisms, attitude, gestures. You see,” he added with an almost chilly stare, “I never saw him alive while he was here this time.”

  Judith tried not to flinch under Doc’s gaze. “No, I guess you didn’t. But it must be him. Harry, I mean. He knew his way around the island. He was a reformed alcoholic. His first name was Harold.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that it was him,” Doc said, now speaking in his usual, kindly manner. “You don’t want to wish anybody ill, and yet there’s some part of you that can’t help but feel smug when a person gets what you think he deserved.” Doc put his head in his hands. “Isn’t that terrible? Look at all the good Harry did—and I’m gloating! That makes me far worse than he ever was. Alcoholism is a terrible disease.”

  Renie, who had propped herself up against a filing cabinet, made a clucking noise with her tongue. “True, except that people do one of two things when they have a disease—they get over it, or they die from it. Burrell—Harry—seemingly recovered. And yet…” Her words trailed off.

  Judith glanced at her cousin. As was so often the case, she knew what Renie was thinking. “Maybe he did die of it—only twenty-some years later.”

  Abruptly, Doc removed his hands from his face. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, that maybe something he did while he was still drinking caused his death.” Judith felt nervous as she uttered the statement. “We heard he was thrown off the island. Do you know why, Doc?”

  Behind the crooked glasses, Doc’s gaze was steady. “No. I wasn’t here when that happened.”

  It wasn’t the answer that Judith had expected. Suddenly, she felt at a loss. There was something about Doc—his innate dignity, his obvious need to guard his privacy, his natural reserve—that kept Judith from pressing him for answers. He seemed the soul of integrity. But, like so many of the other island dwellers, had he lied? Early on, Doc had stated that he didn’t know H. Burrell Hodge. But even then, he must have suspected that Burrell and Harry Hodge were the same person. Judith fervently wished that there was someone on Chavez who would stick to the truth.

  Maybe there was. A surreptitious glance at her watch showed Judith that it was just after nine-thirty. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to pay another call.
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  “Are you going to be okay?” Judith asked Doc.

  He nodded and smiled. “I’m fine now. The last few days have kind of gotten to me. Old age must be setting in.”

  “Not quite,” Judith said encouragingly. “Strain can knock any of us for a loop. See you tomorrow, Doc. We’ll be getting some new guests.”

  Outside, Renie started for the road that led to the Barber house. But Judith was going in the other direction. “What now?” Renie demanded.

  “I thought we’d pay a visit to Elrod Dobler,” Judith replied, keeping her voice down. “Can you imagine him hemming and hawing and telling tall tales?”

  “I can imagine him loading and aiming and firing his gun,” Renie retorted. “I don’t think that going to see Elrod after dark is a very good idea.”

  Judith started to argue, then decided that maybe Renie was right. “Okay, we’ll do it in the morning. Maybe I should call Joe.”

  Five minutes later, Judith was on the phone. Just before the call was about to switch over to the answering machine, she heard a masculine voice at the other end. To her astonishment, it wasn’t Joe.

  “Ah…er…excuse me,” she said, sounding rattled. “I must have the wrong—”

  “Judith?” the voice broke in. “It’s me—Bill.”

  “Bill?” Judith goggled at Renie who was putting a bag of popcorn in the microwave. “What are you doing at Hillside Manor? Or did I dial your number by mistake?”

  “No,” Bill answered. “Those cleaning fluid smells at our house are overpowering. Joe asked me if I’d like to stay in Mike’s old room. How are you two doing?”

  “Uh…fine, swell, great.” Judith kept her gaze fixed on Renie who was now looking confused as well as anxious. “Do you want to talk to your wife?”

  Bill did, though Judith knew that Renie’s husband had an aversion to the telephone that was almost as great as Gertrude’s. “By the way,” Judith said before she handed the phone to Renie, “where is Joe?”

  “He went to a meeting with Vivian. Is Renie there?” It was obvious that Bill wanted to keep the call to a minimum.

  Renie took the receiver. “Don’t tell me you inhaled,” she said.

  A popping sound emanated from the microwave. Judith stood by, watching the timer. As expected, Renie’s conversation with Bill was short and to the point: “Progress?…Paint?…Mail?…Kids?…Work?…Love you.” Renie hung up. “I didn’t realize it at the time,” she said in a wondering tone, “but I think one of the reasons I married Bill was so that I wouldn’t have to engage in long phone conversations. It makes up for talking to—or being talked at—by my mother.”

  “Nothing makes up for talking to our mothers,” Judith said, somewhat distractedly. “I wonder what kind of meeting.”

  “Huh?” Renie gave Judith a puzzled look.

  “Joe went with Herself to a meeting,” Judith said. “Maybe it’s AA. Maybe it’s Adhab. Maybe it’s a tryst at a seedy motel.”

  “Right.” Renie yawned, then pushed Judith out of the way as the microwave went off. “Quit imagining things. Concentrate on the lighter side of life. Like murder.”

  Judith tried to do just that. As Renie melted an alarming amount of butter and poured it over the popcorn, Judith got a can of diet soda out of the refrigerator and tried to put the day’s jumble of information into some kind of logical order. She was about to follow Renie into the living room when a noise at the front door startled her. Under the flood-light, she saw two raccoons clambering around on the deck.

  “They must have smelled the popcorn,” she remarked. “Don’t they ever give up?”

  “Nope,” Renie said, collapsing onto the sofa and stuffing her face. “They’re greedy.”

  Judith couldn’t suppress a grin. “And you’re not?”

  “I’m merely hungry,” Renie replied. “Here, have some. It’s pretty good.”

  For a few minutes, the cousins munched and sipped in companionable silence. There was more thumping and bumping on the deck, but they chose to ignore the intruders.

  “It’s too late to watch a video,” Judith finally said, noting that it was now ten o’clock straight up. “Shall we turn on the news?”

  “I never watch the news on TV,” Renie declared. “All those cardboard anchorpersons smiling their way through grim death and disaster makes me gag.”

  Judith, however, often switched on the late newscast. “Let’s catch the headlines,” she suggested, reaching for the remote control on the coffee table. “I gather that Burrell’s murder still hasn’t made the media in the city.”

  “Bill wouldn’t know,” Renie said. “He doesn’t watch the TV news, either. Sometimes all he reads in the paper is the sports. With the kind of teams we’ve got, that’s usually depressing enough. Then he has to give himself therapy.”

  The set came on, predictably showing a beaming blond anchorwoman recounting a light plane crash which had killed a family of four in the southern part of the state. She smiled her way through the bloodied victims of a war halfway around the world, an African famine, and the fatal overdose of a rock musician. With a cynical expression, Renie kept devouring popcorn; Judith was moved by the tragedies, sitting motionless with her diet soda poised halfway between her lap and her lips. Despite the anchorwoman’s fixed smile, Judith could swear she heard someone crying in the background.

  “It’s the producer,” Renie said, taking a big swig of Pepsi. “Even some television people have a heart.”

  Judith suddenly pressed the Mute button. “No, it’s not. Somebody is crying. Listen.”

  Renie did. “It’s the raccoons,” she said. “They’ve got a new tactic. Real tears, to go with their banditlike eyes.”

  But Judith wasn’t about to be swayed. “It’s not coming from the deck, it’s in the other direction.” She rose from the sofa and went to the back door. The fairy lights that glittered in the ivy didn’t reveal anything unusual. Judith cautiously opened the door. There was no one on the porch or in either of the alcoves.

  But the sound of weeping grew louder. Going to the top step, Judith looked down. She remembered all too clearly the sprawled form of H. Burrell Hodge lying at the bottom of the stairs. To her astonishment, a figure sat huddled on the last step. Judith darted back inside, but left the door ajar.

  “Coz!” she hissed. “Somebody’s outside!”

  Renie put aside the magazine she’d been perusing, grabbed another handful of popcorn, and hurried to join Judith. Gripping the handrail, the cousins descended warily. The sobs were deep and heartrending. Within the last six steps, Judith recognized the disheveled pale blond hair of Rowena Carr.

  Judith and Renie kept their distance. “Mrs. Carr,” Judith called softly. “Is something wrong?”

  The distraught woman’s head jerked up but she didn’t turn around. “Oh! Oh! Ohhh!” She buried her face in her hands and began to sob again.

  Now Judith moved closer, placing a gentle hand on Mrs. Carr’s shaking shoulder. “Why don’t you come inside? It’s chilly out here tonight.”

  Rowena Carr kept sobbing; Judith’s hand remained on the other woman’s shoulder. At last, Mrs. Carr seemed to gather strength. She grasped the rail and raised herself to a standing position. The tear-streaked face she turned to Judith was terrified.

  “Am I going mad?” she asked in a trembling voice.

  Judith didn’t feel qualified to answer the question. “Let’s have some hot cocoa,” she suggested. “Then we’ll talk about what’s bothering you.”

  The words seemed to soothe Mrs. Carr. Docilely, she let Judith and Renie lead her up the stairs and into the living room. A nod from Judith sent Renie to the kitchen to make cocoa. Judith insisted that Mrs. Carr sit on the sofa.

  “Does Cilla know you’re here?” Judith asked, remembering to turn off the muted television set.

  Mrs. Carr shook her head. She was very pale, and the limp blond hair hung in tangles around her shoulders. In the full light of the living room, Judith could see that their unexpected
guest was wearing a waltz-length nightgown and slippers under a tan raincoat. The slippers didn’t match.

  “I keep forgetting,” Mrs. Carr murmured, more to herself than to Judith. “Jeanne isn’t here. She’s been such a help to me since we moved to Chavez Island.”

  “In what way?” Judith inquired, pulling the rocking chair closer to the sofa.

  Mrs. Carr wasn’t looking at Judith. Her gaze seemed to be fixed on a basket of African violets that sat on the coffee table. “Jeanne insisted I was normal,” Mrs. Carr finally said. “There was nothing wrong with me. Not really. I just needed…medicine. But I don’t like medicine. I don’t like hospitals. I don’t like doctors.”

  “I see,” Judith said vaguely. “Are you…Christian Scientist?”

  Now Mrs. Carr did meet Judith’s gaze. “Oh, no! Not that there’s anything wrong with being a Christian Scientist—but my feelings aren’t based on religious principles. It’s experience that’s taught me to avoid the medical profession. They can only bring you grief.”

  “Goodness,” Judith remarked, “I don’t think that’s always true. Doctors save lives all the time. They prevent tragedies. They give us all a better quality of life. Oh, I’ll admit that sometimes they make mistakes, just like anyone else—they’re human, after all—but by and large, there are a lot of dedicated health-care providers out there.”

  Mrs. Carr sat up very straight. There was no sign of tears now, and her voice had grown firm. “I only know from what I personally experienced.”

  “Which was?” Judith phrased the question casually.

  “We should never have come here.” The brief calm deserted Mrs. Carr as she swiveled and twitched on the sofa. “Cilla thought it would be good for me. But it isn’t. It was a terrible idea. Of course she couldn’t know.”

  “Know what?” Again, Judith kept her voice conversational.

  A sudden, frightened expression flooded Mrs. Carr’s pale face. “It’s not something I can discuss,” she declared, rising from the sofa. “Not with strangers. Not with anybody. I should go home. Cilla will worry.”