The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

  On the other hand, Fred knew he had to make the call because of his son Baldo, his favorite, the one who looked like a miniature version of himself, poor kid. Baldo had come home from school all excited, his round face lit up like a hundred-watt bulb. Fred loved seeing his son happy. It made his day. Then Baldo said, “I’ve made friends with Hercel. He’s great! He’s going to be my best friend. He knows neat magic tricks.”

  Fred remembered Hercel. He was Carl Krause’s stepkid. So he had said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  Baldo heard his father’s caution. “Sure, it is. It’s fantastic. Why shouldn’t it be a good idea?” His excitement had turned to watch-fulness.

  What could Fred say, that Carl Krause was a nutcase? That he was uncontrolled and potentially violent? These were not adjectives that Fred wanted to trickle back to Carl. He also knew that Baldo would laugh at them. So what other reason could he give? The family’s social position? They weren’t Roman Catholics? They hadn’t been born in Brewster? They drove the wrong kind of car?

  “Maybe you’re right,” Fred had said. “He looks like a good kid. Just remember, when you meet a person, they’re on their best behavior. It’s only when you start knowing them that the funny parts show up.”

  “That’s not true with Hercel,” said Baldo eagerly. “He hated me at first. It took a long time before he got to like me. I kinda grew on him.”

  So Fred decided to call Oswego. Maybe Carl Krause would have an outstanding warrant for his arrest or something useful like that.

  The Oswego police chief was Matthew McGarrah and it had taken several calls and a lot of explaining before Fred had been given his home phone number. At first they indulged in a certain amount of chitchat before they got to the business at hand. “Do you know old so-and-so?” “We already had eight inches of snow.” Then Chief McGarrah came to the important part: “Carl’s a great guy if he takes his meds.”

  Fred felt a chill. “How d’you mean?”

  “He gets paranoid, a little violent. He beat up a guy in a bar. If he’s on his meds, he’s a real charmer. He’d do anything for you; you only have to ask. But three times he’s been down to Benjamin Rush for ECT treatments. Did him a world of good. For a while.”

  A request for clarification revealed that Carl had gotten shock therapy in a nuthouse in Syracuse, just like Jack Nicholson in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Zap, zap, and your brain vanished into the local power grid. No wonder Carl acted so funny. It made Fred feel almost sorry for him.

  They chatted some more, and Fred got the names and phone numbers of an Oswego shrink who’d seen Carl, and some shrinks at Benjamin Rush.

  “Carl was fine for at least two years before he moved east. I figured he’d been cured. Is he doing okay?”

  “Maybe,” said Fred. “We’re just curious, that’s all.”

  Next Fred put a call in to Captain Brotman and passed on the information. To his mind, it’d be better if Brotman contacted the New York shrinks. He had more clout and wouldn’t be stopped by the confidentiality business. For crying out loud, it wasn’t as if shrinks were priests. In fact, most of them were atheists or Jewish.

  • • •

  Leaving Woody in the parking lot around eleven-thirty, Bobby Anderson climbed into his Z, revved it several times to get the squirrels jumping, and drove to Brantley’s Funeral Home at the other end of Water Street. Although he’d seen a lot of dead people, he disliked the transitional phase between death and the cemetery or crematorium, when the makeup was dished out and the dead were made to live again, all in good fun. He had seen guys mushed in car wrecks who had been put back together and looked the picture of health, as long as you squinted. He found it creepy. “People need closure,” Shawna told him. “As far as I’m concerned,” Bobby had said, “being dead is closure enough. It’s like they bring a guy back to life, then whack him again.”

  The funeral home, like many in the East, had begun as a Victorian mansion owned by a local bigwig: an asymmetrical gray house with a turret on the left, wraparound front porch, and a single, three-windowed gable at the third floor. The roof was patterned slate. It was only in the South, Bobby figured, that you found funeral homes in bungalows, even mobile homes.

  Bobby parked in back and checked his smile, and a few minutes later, he was sitting in Brantley’s quietly modulated office—soft chairs, soft music, muted colors, and a polished mahogany desk and file cabinet. Only the computer monitor was modern.

  “Call me Ham; everybody does,” said Digger Brantley.

  As with Fred Bonaldo and Chief McGarrah, a few minutes were given to chitchat. “Yes, I grew up in this house, though we’ve moved to something more modern on James Street. Jenny, that’s my wife, wanted more privacy. It wasn’t until I went to school that I learned other kids didn’t have to maintain absolute silence whenever the telephone rang. I still keep a small apartment up in the turret to use if we’re really busy.”

  Brantley was a well-groomed gray-haired man in a three-piece blue suit. His round, close-shaven face was a healthy pink; his voice was assured and muted. Though not quite stout, he presented the impression of enjoying his creature comforts. As he gave a short history of his career, he happened to mention that he’d embalmed his father and had helped in the embalming of his grandfather. “I felt it a great honor,” he said.

  It was then Bobby realized that, unlike himself, Brantley would never find embalming your old man creepy. He saw that while Brantley surely had a keen sense of his mortality, he viewed death differently than Bobby. The funeral of someone who had lived into old age was, in most cases, an act of quiet celebration for a life well lived. For the sick and suffering, their torment was blessedly at an end. For the young, one’s duty was to help the family grieve and move on. Brantley’s occupation, as he described it, had civic, social, and religious responsibilities. He hoped to make the survivors his friends. Many were friends already. After all, he and Jenny had grown up in Brewster.

  “Sad to say, these days family funeral homes are a dying breed,” said Brantley, “what with the spread of the corporations. Service Corporation International is the largest. They operate over fifteen hundred funeral homes and own over four hundred cemeteries here in the U.S. You mostly don’t deal with a licensed mortician but with a salesman who knows all a salesman’s tricks. SCI trades on the New York Stock Exchange, and they have to keep their investors happy. Sorry to go on about it, but it gets my dander up, as my grandfather used to say. But the business is changing in other ways. It used to be only one out of ten was cremated; now it’s over half. In twenty years less than a quarter will choose burial. Fortunately, we have our own crematorium near Hope Valley that’s able to fill the needs of a few other funeral homes in South County. Keeps the home fires burning, you might say.”

  Bobby shot him a quick look, but Brantley maintained his benign expression. So far Brantley hadn’t asked Bobby the reason for his visit, and Bobby guessed that the practice of patience was part of Brantley’s business, to give the impression he had all the time in the world to spend on Bobby’s needs.

  “I’m curious about an employee of yours,” said Bobby. “Carl Krause. We’re not investigating him for anything and, as far as I know, he’s not guilty of any crime. I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

  Brantley smiled benignly, and behind the smile, Bobby thought, there could be anything, not necessarily anything bad, just anything.

  “Carl’s been a big help, though he only works part-time. As you can imagine, an old place like this requires a lot of upkeep, and Carl’s the sort of handyman who can do almost anything: plumbing, carpentry, electrical work, painting, and plastering. We’re fortunate to have him. He’s not a socializer, but then it’s not necessary for him to socialize. Whenever we have a viewing, he stays out of the way. I’ve four full-time employees and two other part-timers. None have made complaints about Carl. Is there something in particular you’re interested in?”

  It seemed to Bobby that he’d
learned a lot and learned nothing. “Has he shown any signs of a temper?”

  Brantley laughed. “Don’t we all at some time or another? But seriously, I’ve found he can be irritable at times, but I’ve chalked it up to, well, he’s not a socializer. He’s certainly not quarreled with anyone here. I hope to give him some training—in a small way—in the preparation room. It’s always quiet there, but some people are squeamish, as you might imagine.”

  There followed a tour of the funeral home. Brantley’s wife had decorated much of the downstairs. “Jenny has a wonderful eye for details. It’s a gift.” Bobby liked the rental caskets for those who were cremated and was appalled that some families spent twelve grand on a casket that went up in smoke. He liked that some people were buried with their golf clubs, fishing tackle, and Barbie dolls, and was appalled that a woman had her two cats put to sleep so they could be in her casket. He found the preparation room and embalming table chilling.

  Ham Brantley laughed. “The dead hold no mysteries for me.”

  • • •

  Woody was reading the completed profiles of men and women who had access to the hospital nursery during the week before the Summers baby’s abduction, when there was a tap on the door.

  “Come on in!” he called.

  Dr. Jonathan Balfour entered and shut the door behind him. His face was by turns arrogant and sheepish. “I have a confession to make,” he said.

  Dr. Balfour was a willowy, almost delicate young man with thick blond hair, a wave of which fell across his forehead. He had the long fingers of a basketball player or pianist. Dressed in khakis, a white shirt, blue V-necked sweater, and Sperry Top-Siders, he couldn’t have been more Ivy League if he had had the words stamped across his forehead.

  “Oh?” said Woody, noncommittally.

  “Alice was with me when she should have been in labor and delivery. We were having sex. It’s clear you’d find out about it, so I wanted to tell you first. I don’t know whose fault it was. It was something we both wanted. I’d been watching her for weeks. When I found out she felt the same way, it seemed we had no choice. Now I’m sure it’ll lead to my dismissal. Hers too, most likely. I don’t suppose you can keep this a secret? Of course you’ll do what you have to. I feel extremely guilty about the missing baby.” Dr. Balfour stood with his hands folded in front of him in apparent humility.

  “Is that the best you can say?” Woody was furious that Balfour had put the babies at risk. “A baby disappeared because of you.”

  “You’re right to despise me. I despise myself. It was bad luck all around. I doubt that Alice was away from the floor for more than ten or fifteen minutes. She was very worried about it. Basically, she’s a great girl. You’ve got to believe that.”

  Woody was hardly civil. “It doesn’t strike me as a matter of bad luck.”

  “I mean, I should have stopped myself when I first realized I was looking at her inappropriately. At the time, it seemed very simple and uncomplicated—two adults exercising their desire. But there was nothing ordinary about it. For weeks I watched how her thighs moved; I’d watch her breasts. To learn that she felt the same way was the only spark we needed. We fed on each other like animals.”

  “So what was it? A burning passion, or were you knocking off a quickie?”

  Balfour looked at Woody with dislike. “A bit of both, actually.”

  “Are these things common in hospitals?”

  “I’ve known of it happening, but never to me.”

  “Do you realize we’ve been searching for Alice Alessio all over the state, that hundreds of man-hours have been spent looking for her?”

  Dr. Balfour began to speak and then shook his head.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Right now she’s probably sitting in my living room, crying her eyes out.”

  NINE

  FOR A WOMAN OF NINETY-FIVE, Maud Lord was in exceptional shape. Or, as she put it, she had the figure of a girl of seventy. She’d buried three husbands and was still ticking. At the moment, she was single, but if a chance for romance had again presented itself, she would gladly have buried husband number four as well. She had three children, nine grandchildren, twenty-two great-grandchildren, and, so far, five great-great-grandchildren.

  Maud attributed these successes to walking around the block.

  She had a small apartment in the assisted-living section of Ocean Breezes on Oak Street. Ten years ago she still had her own house, a large colonial, but it had led her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren into temptation. All lived in South County, and all wanted things of her. The fact that Maud lived in a twelve-room house excited their domestic ambitions. Didn’t she want to get that old furniture—expensive antiques—off her hands? Would she mind if Hank or Tom or Sarah or Betty stored a few small items in one of her unused rooms, attic, or garage, but not the basement, it was too damp?

  These suggestions/requests came nearly every week, and when she turned them down it didn’t sit well with her loving family. They developed aggrieved, even spiteful, expressions. Little Bill, her favorite great-grandchild, said she didn’t love him anymore. Her grandson’s Maltese, Mr. So-Soft, growled at her.

  So Maud gave it up. Sold the house, sold the majority of the antiques, and put most of the money in trust funds for the college education of her great-great-grandchildren, who were young enough to learn some manners.

  To be sure, the walks had begun long before her move to Ocean Breezes. Many times, in the course of her three marriages, she had developed a powerful need to just get out and perambulate. This had taken her to the Appalachian Trail, the Swiss Alps, the fjords in Norway, and halfway across Patagonia. Now she limited herself to walking around the block, sometimes more than once.

  Living where she did, she had several walks at her disposal, whether she turned left or right or went straight. On this particular Saturday morning in late October she chose to turn left, a simple choice that changed her life.

  Maud was no longer an early riser—what was the point?—and it was nearly ten o’clock when she left her assisted-living apartment. On rainy days or in winter when it was icy, she would take a cane, but she liked to extend the state of being unassisted to all areas, and so on a mild fall morning with the sun bright in the sky, she left her cane at home.

  She was thin, as might be expected, and relatively tall, though four inches shorter than she’d been at fifty. She needed glasses for reading, but not otherwise, and she didn’t need to pad and puff up her thick white hair, as did a few of her contemporaries in Ocean Breezes. She imagined herself as straight as an oak, but that was no longer the case. Still, the slight bend in her back was no worse than it might have been in a woman of seventy. She had sharp blue eyes, and she saw everything. But she wasn’t a gossip. Later she said the air had had an ominous quality she couldn’t quite articulate, but doubtless that was said for effect.

  Reaching the corner of Lark, Maud again turned left. She saw little traffic—an oil truck, a UPS truck, Father Pete in his Buick on his way to the Brewster Golf Club for nine holes before lunch. If she chose, Maud could walk quite quickly, but she enjoyed noting the differences from one day to the next, the gardens, the turning of the leaves, what the birds were doing and which remained, who was having his or her windows washed, who got a lot of mail, who got little. In this way, she saw herself as reading the block as one might read a book.

  On this particular Saturday morning, because the weather was warm and she wore comfortable brown oxfords, she decided to branch out into new territory, relatively speaking, and when she reached the corner of Hope she turned right, which would add an extra block to her walk. She saw this block as one of newer homes. Maud had been born in Brewster and recalled when these houses were built in the 1930s, recalled the mules used to dig out the foundations. Before that the land had been part of a farm belonging to George Flocker, and the Flocker farmhouse, a brick colonial, was now in the middle of the block, set a
mong Capes and bungalows.

  So her pace was leisurely—an old snoop, people sometimes said. On some days she might meet another pedestrian and stop to chat, but this happened rarely. You’d think a few other residents of Ocean Breezes would also take walks, but mostly they watched TV or chatted and drank decaf or took part in lunchtime sing-alongs. As far as Maud was concerned this led to an early death, relatively speaking. God knows people had been dropping like flies in the past month, even some of her friends, and it wasn’t even winter yet.

  One house had red curtains and flickering crystals in the window. Another house needed to have the leaves raked. A third had half a dozen Brewster Times & Advertisers scattered about its front porch—they must be away. A fourth had something odd hanging in a juniper, odd enough to stop Maud in her tracks, odd enough—and this was something she never did—to walk up the front walk for a better look. It was dangling close to the trunk and mostly concealed by the other branches, something gray. Maud tried to determine what it was, and as recognition flowed into her mind, her back, which had been bent as she leaned forward, began to straighten.

  This was the moment the mail truck pulled up in front and Tommy Cathcart hurried up the walk with a package for Hercel McGarty Jr. from Hercel Sr., for this was Hercel’s house.

  “Hi, Maud. How’re you doin’?” said Tommy. “Nice enough for you?”

  Usually, Maud felt that at ninety-five she deserved to be called Mrs. Lord and she disliked how the girls at Ocean Breezes, as well as men and women in the bank, market, pharmacy, and flower shop, called her by her first name. But right now the mild discourtesy didn’t faze her.