After I'm Buried Alive

by Catharine Bramkamp

  Chapter 6

  We were not done. “Maria, you know Maria?” Tiffany clutched a string of pearls and started to hunt for her purse.

  I’m in Italy, so I must know Maria? “No.”

  Tiffany hesitated. “Thought you might, it’s a small town.”

  Venice is a small town, but not in the way Tiffany assumed.

  “She’s the estate agent. She’ll be by later. You stay here.”

  “For the day?”

  “No, for the week or however long it takes to sell the place. I read that a house for sale always shows better when someone is living there. You can bake cookies for the smell, that’s supposed to help.”

  I must have looked askance. She retreated, “But only if you want.”

  I remained silent.

  She switched tactics. “Please Victoria, I can’t trust anyone else. I don’t know anyone here. And the thieves! It’s a wonder the place wasn’t stripped to the walls. Good thing I got here when I did.”

  She sounded like a woman who listens to too much news. I glanced back to the bedroom. How many people will it take to dismantle that thing?

  Tiffany found her purse and gathered up the three paintings. “I’m depending on you.”

  That sounded familiar enough.

  I helped her carry the paintings down the narrow stairwell. Tiffany negotiated the narrow stairs carefully. Her high heels made her sway against the wall and I worried that with a painting under each arm, I wouldn’t be able to catch her before she tumbled down the stone stairs. I was quite relieved when we reached the cobblestones all in one piece. She tucked the paintings under her arm, and I directed her to Rachael’s place, the closest gallery (at least I hoped it was still there and not a Hanson Gallery featuring authentic hand-painted Disney animation cells), just around the corner.

  “Remember,” she adjusted the awkward canvases; we had pulled them from the frames to make them easier to carry. “The paintings will need to be removed, and you’ll need to clean.”

  “Call a house cleaner, got it.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “You can clean.”

  “I never cleaned.” I straightened and looked her in the eye. I was not the maid. I had been mistaken for the maid once, never again.

  Alone in the apartment I fired up the espresso machine, another former job, delivering tiny cups of life-giving caffeine to my lover.

  I moved five chairs away from the windows. At almost noon, the streets and canal below were coming to life. Boats zoomed by, gaggles of tourists on both public taxis and private tour boats shouted and laughed. A siren in the distance. But here in the apartment, the silence raged. I sat on the couch and sipped my coffee.

  Depending on you.

  Vic is so good at managing Tina often bragged. She has been invaluable, Vance insisted.

  When Dad had his second heart attack, who was right there, calling the ambulance while doing recitation? You know, that Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin alive thing? My brothers insisted on calling Dad’s resurrection a miracle. Then went out of their way to express their devotion and absolute pleasure that good old Vic is in town, ready to take care of everything.

  That was two years ago. Yes, I brought Dad back to life but I’m not sure he ever forgave me.

  Both Vince and Vance certainly took credit. They were the heroes, keeping Mom and Dad at home, the money and sacrifice they made. They were always so good to them. Vincent even had the temerity to call his weekly visits “a great sacrifice.”

  Our parents lived for Vincent’s shadow to fall over the front stoop. I admit that Vincent did liven up a week otherwise devoted to doctors’ visits and prescription purchases. My oldest brother usually stopped by after work on Tuesdays, since Wednesday was golf, and Thursday was Tina’s spa day, and then it was the weekend with Matt’s sports and Chris’s special school projects. Often over the weekend, when Tina and Vince needed some couple's time, they would drop off Chris at the house and he and I would work on his homework while Grandma and Grandpa napped. It was the only time the TV was off because all those voices were too disturbing and difficult for Chris.

  Vince impressed Mom and Dad with how organized he was how in CHARGE of everything he was. No matter what my proposed solution to a problem was, it was Vince who fixed the computer glitch, added the tax bill differently (don’t ask), or hammered the final inch of a protruding nail. He rolled in late, left early. Waiting for Vince’s visit was a full-time job. Nothing else could be done. I dressed Mom and Dad in their nicest sweat suits, practical, ugly. It made me shudder remembering how I used to handle 140,000-dollar designer dresses and made sure every detail of a perfect photo shoot was executed. I had been reduced to helping my mother find her favorite ill-named turquoise jogging suit, adjust her Velcro shoes, help her to her favorite chair.

  I made drinks and served snacks, Maui potato chips, artichoke dip from Costco and JB bourbon on the rocks.

  “So.” Vince would lean against the couch, arms across the back, drink in hand.

  “How are you doing today? Vic treating you right?”

  Mom launched into her day: the doctors, the traffic, the old people driving badly in the CVS parking lot. The old people making her wait in the doctor’s office. What a terrible state the world was in, with all the kidnapping, murders and pedophiles trolling parking lots threatening the elderly. Immigrant murderers walked around Lincoln, California, free and unfettered. It was such a dangerous world: better to stay in, better to be safe. It was an old refrain; I had heard it all my life. The best way to avoid the pain and apologies of failure was to not try at all.

  Vincent nodded, taking everything Mom said very seriously. After two bourbons, he’d glance at his watch.

  “Got to get home for the boys. They are getting so big!”

  Mom knew. She saw Chris every week. But she always nodded, “You do so much Vincent, you and Tina, thank you for dropping by.”

  I kept my expression neutral and gathered up the snacks and drinks.

  Vince nodded to me and quickly exited. His personal land speed record was a 9.5-minute drop-by. His visits averaged twenty minutes.

  But those few minutes were well leveraged. For the next twenty-four hours, Vince’s visit was the primary topic of conversation. We discussed Vince over our hot oatmeal and decaf coffee. We marveled at his business acumen as we drove to Save Mart for groceries on Senior Discount Day, we wondered how he managed the job, wife and children over our chicken pot pies. Vance, who cleverly lived exactly forty-five minutes farther away, visited on holidays. He too was devoted and would approve of any invasive procedure, any intervention that would keep our parents alive.

  After spending thirty-six months, five days, and seventeen hours hovering at “the end” I had a lot to say about quality of life. During my tenure in the fashion business, I knew far too many men who, through no fault of their own, sacrificed quality over painful stupefying quantity.

  Max himself was having none of it. He insisted on his own way out. Easier in Italy, not so simple in the States. Max allowed the cancer, helped quickly along by his severely compromised immune system, to take its course. I discouraged him from tattooing Do Not Resuscitate on his chest, assuring him that I understood, I got this. Max focused on quality, my parents, with my brothers’ encouragement, volume.

  Dad spent his next six “miracle months” visiting doctors. Every other afternoon, I loaded first Mom and Dad, then just Mom slowly very slowly, into the car. The smell and feel of the car triggered car-specific stories, all of which I have heard hundreds of times: the afternoon I threw up in the back, the July Vincent had diarrhea and we had to turn back from the planned drive to the Grand Canyon, the Halloween I broke my arm because I was so clumsy. All stories built about the theme of hospital visits, inconvenience and the expense, lovingly recalled in detail and repeated without variation until I pulled onto Highway 20.

  The only bright spot in the week was our Senior Stretch classes for the very old with nothing left to do but spend ni
nety minutes moving even more slowly than usual but this time under professional supervision. Mom and Dad were very good at Savasana, lying very quietly. I liked the modified yoga class, but it was disconcerting to have so many elderly people lying quietly on their mats, barely breathing. Every day I worried that someone in the class would just stay where they were, forever in the final resting position. I liked the instructor; she didn’t allow us to rest for very long and was conscientious about making sure every student rolled over and up off the matt. Losing a client to forever Savasana probably involved a lot of paperwork.

  During one of our last Senior Stretch classes, while executing one of my better versions of downward dog, I suddenly understood that my own life was ebbing away under the rip tide of elder care.

  I took a breath and shook my head. That was all behind me. Concentrate on the present. My phone vibrated in my pocket, but it took too much effort to pry it out.

  Tiffany could leave a message.

  What had Miranda shown me over Skype? That blue hippo, mostly blue-green. It couldn’t be the real thing, there we too many copies in circulation. Jolly, round and deep blue, that hippo figurine was one of the more charming Egyptian collectables, especially if you don’t know anything about Egyptian history. If you’ve hung out at the Met for any time at all, you know this hippo. He even has a name, William, an oddly formal nickname, but I’m not sure the Egyptians of the Middle Kingdom (or New or Late Kingdoms for that matter) actually gave their gods nicknames. At any rate, William is a particularly good example of beautiful, durable blue faience, the plastic of the ancient world.

  I set my cup in the sink and automatically dusted the counter and the glowering espresso machine. I wrestled my phone from my back pocket and made a note to buy more coffee. And milk. Food. I stuffed it back in my hip pocket and pulled my shirt over it.

  I expected to see the little guy on the shelf by the front door where Miranda displayed her latest finds. The shelves were cluttered with porcelain cups and saucers decorated with members of the British Royal Family, stained glass patterned pitchers and plates from Barcelona, a few inexpensive Polish pottery mugs and on the top shelf, two wonderful Italian urns painted with bright blue and yellow lemons. I pulled a chair over and carefully removed the urns and set them on either side of the front door.

  I dusted my hands on my jeans and entered the bedroom. The purported genuine Louise Nevelson work looked sharp and precarious. The TV screen was perched on a set of drawers to my left, its big black screen complimented the enormous Nevelson for a decided post-apocalyptic vibe. I loved that the TV was off. I once accidentally turned off my mother’s TV.

  The falling silence was like those rare mornings when you wake with no electricity and can’t figure out why it’s so quiet. I used to blame the snow, the muffling of the cars, the forced slower speeds, the soft trees, but no, I now realize it was the absence of that constant hum of electricity, that constant drone of working refrigerators, clocks, the microwave, the ever-ready coffee maker, clothes dryer.

  And just like that, the chatter was gone. I stood by the blank TV in a kind of shock, unsure of how to respond.

  “What are you doing? I need that on!” Mom shouted.

  “Why?” A solitary word, one often left unanswered in my family.

  Mother paused as if really considering the question. Then slowly said, “Without it, I’d be too lonely.”

  I switched it back on and left the room.

  Outside, the roar of vaporettos, neighbors calling to one another, the distant sound of hammering and jack hammering in a futile effort to keep yet another building from falling into the canal.

  I don’t clean, but I do organize. I opened the dresser drawers and automatically made piles of clothes—sweaters and slacks to give away, a few scarves and socks for me to keep. I moved to the nightstand: phone still on the charger, water glass, box of tissues. Missing were the pile of favorite rings and bracelets Miranda had shed at the last minute before passing out in bed. Tiffany had already taken those.

  I looked in the nightstand drawer but couldn’t tell if someone had raided it or if that was just the usual chaos that was Miranda.

  I pressed a hand on the bedclothes, rumpled and cold.

  We had been good together, at a time when it was all the more exciting because it was new, part of the bohemian fashion world, part of being forward, crazy.

  It had been crazy,

  But it was also love.

  I smoothed and straightened the bed, making neat hospital corners. I stubbed my toe on the shallow platform bed; it was a pain to make the bed, but the drawers were necessary additional storage.

  That was it.

  The drawers surrounding the bed were packed with off-season clothes. I pulled out the one under the left side, the side Miranda favored. It moved smoothly. I pulled it all the way out (more sweaters) and reached under the space as far as I could. I grabbed the box, feeling like that opening scene in Amelie.

  This box was not dusty. Ah, active to the end.

  I sat back on my heels and opened the box. It was packed with all the latest gadgets. I gingerly searched through the dildos and vibrators, a collapsible whip—that was new. The little blue figure hardly stood out among the rabbits and snakes with articulated battery powered tongues, but there it was. Still bright blue, after what I assumed was a good 4,000 years. We should all be so well preserved.

  Hello. You look friendly enough.

  William-the-hippo did not look like he'd come straight from the Metropolitan Museums’ gift shop. That one was, as the Museum’s bulletin read, a “particularly fine example of a type found, in common with various other animal forms, among the funerary furnishings of tombs of the Middle Kingdom”. This one was faded, nicked and battered. Too green and too small to be from a gift shop or catalogue. It was only four inches long, with five tiny ducks painted on each side of his light blue hide. I pulled him out rattling plastic, leather and something else.

  I unpacked out all the toys. Underneath was a hand full of matching blue ushabtis. Definitely not sold through the National Geographic Holiday Gift catalogue. Not sold at all.

  I gathered them up and cradled them in my lap. Your ticket to the good life in the next life. They were nicked, but intact. The Hippo could be fake. A cheap knockoff painted with ducks instead of the typical papyrus fans. But I was sure the little statues were real. And illegal.

  I held one up. Hundreds of them littered the workers villages where Nic and I had worked. Only a few survived in the tombs, robbed before anything could really age. I wanted to keep one, just one, but Nic wouldn’t hear of it. It was like taking your first drink, your first hit, your first cigarette.

  “Don’t start, Vic. Everything we find needs to be counted for.”

  He was so self-righteous. But right.

  I had spent years with Nic on worker sites up and down the Nile. Nic was an on-and-off archeologist, dependent on grants, dependent on his adjunct schedule at UCSB and UC Irvine. Lecture for a quarter or two in California, back in the field for the season. I had followed him back and forth for as long as I kept his interest, and for as long as I could stand it.

  I tried to recall the article Chris had shown me, I would need to ask him for the link. I could claim ignorance about the hippo; the faience, not so much. This many? They had either come from the home of an exceptionally enterprising tomb robber or from a tomb. A new tomb. A fresh dig.

  I glanced at the toys. Should I remove them and spare Tiffany? Or return them so the person who bothered to stretch-out on the carpet and grope under the bed would be well rewarded, all her worst suspicions confirmed? I opted for the reward system. I dumped the toys back into their box but kept the artifacts. They weren’t safe here, not with an imminent move, not with strangers traipsing in and around the apartment looking in the closet, searching the drawers, measuring the shower, reaching under the bed.

  Where had Miranda found these? A small shop in town. Around the corner? Not helpful, Miran
da’s sense of direction was never very good and her vague explanations about where and when she found fabulous things were often not to be taken at face value.

  I couldn’t explain away my uneasiness. Miranda had hidden these in an excellent place. Except, except. Someone had searched her place. Searched thoroughly, and not found these. Or maybe they had found something else?

  Plus, if Miranda had a real heart attack, why hadn’t she reached out for help? I returned to the nightstand. Had the phone been moved? I couldn’t tell. I picked it up and tried Miranda’s old password, no luck. I was a number short. I tried three more times using different numbers at the end of her usual password. I was locked out for my trouble.

  I returned the phone onto the end table and regarded the bed. It didn’t feel right. Yet I had no evidence, of anything. Why did I think her death was not of natural causes? Had there been a report? I’m not an official family member, so I doubted I would be able to secure the coroner’s report. If there had been one. Considering Tiffany’s attitude, it was likely there was NOT a report of any kind. There is nothing harsher than the revenge of the living.

  I shivered, a dying woman, someone or a couple of someones searching frantically through the jewelry, the sweaters, the designer outfits, all in vain. When the apartment goes on the market, whoever had bungled the initial search would free to return. This time there would be considerably less stuff to move and considerably more time to do it.

  Deep breath. Think. Miranda was fine when I spoke with her. She looked stressed, older certainly, but fine and alive. I couldn’t shake the intuition that she was killed. For these?

  I grabbed my purse and slid the ushabtis and hippo into its commodious central compartment.

  I held the purse close.

  How many people besides me, did she tell? Nic. She would have asked for his opinion, confirming that she had indeed, scored a bargain. And had she? I glanced at the neat room, shivering at its tidy incongruity.

  Find the receipt, and search for the store. She didn’t find them on a dig. Miranda’s interest in Egypt was limited to the song by the Bangles.