Tethered

by Amy MacKinnon

He was med-flighted here to Massachusetts General. Alma and I followed in the hearse, driving mostly in silence, Alma humming along to a hymn only she could hear. When we arrived at the emergency room, Dr. Belcher assured Alma that MGH had the best thoracic surgical unit in the nation, and therefore the world. His kind eyes and gentle face didn’t shy from the fear reflected in hers.

  “Your husband is very ill, Mrs. Bartholomew,” he said. “His left lung was punctured and collapsed, and it appears he has several broken ribs. He’s lost a lot of blood—he’s still receiving transfusions. With his extra weight, it’s putting quite a strain on his organs.”

  When Dr. Belcher noticed me beside her, he looked to Alma for guidance. Alma was still wearing her apron, the aroma of garlic and fried potatoes woven into its fibers; it was all the comfort I had until she laid a hand on my shoulder, nudging me forward. I could feel it tremble there, pressing hard between the bones. “This is our daughter, Clara.”

  I didn’t correct her. Dr. Belcher turned his attention to me, and if it were possible, his face softened still more. “Why don’t you come with me? I have an extra sweatshirt in my locker. You can clean up there.”

  I’d forgotten Linus’s blood. Only then did I wonder how Alma could have stood to be near me. When I returned to her side, two Whitman detectives were waiting to speak with me. Neither was recognizable from the interrogations the day before, but I assumed both had been briefed. I nearly hated them for that. Alma had already given her account. She had little to contribute; it was my statement they wanted.

  “Can this wait?” I still felt dizzy after lathering my forearms and hands, watching the soap turn a deep salmon, seeing it splatter in the sink and then flow down the drain. When I looked in the mirror there was a long ragged streak of red down my cheek, curling around my neck. That’s when I vomited.

  “We’re here to help,” said one, who introduced himself as Detective Marcolini. He was lean and strong, the type of man I imagine people wanted beside them in a crisis. “The sooner you talk to us, the sooner we can catch the person who tried to kill Mr. Bartholomew.”

  I suppose I should have known; there was no other explanation for the kind of wound he suffered. Perhaps it was the boldness of the words, stark and spoken, that finally penetrated.

  “Kill Linus?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Marsh,” said the other detective. His name was Pingree. He was older with a long mustache that curled up at the ends; it made him appear to have a constant smile just above his lip. “The doctor said he was knifed. What we’re hearing from the crime scene is that the lines to the outside lights were cut. Did you see anyone when you found Mr. Bartholomew? Hear anything unusual?”

  “No, nothing.”

  With their prompting, I told them about finding Linus. About stumbling over him, the weight of his blood, and then I remembered his words.

  “He said there was a man. He told me to run.” That’s when Alma came to me, tried her best to take me in her arms. “My God, he told me to run.” It was the first time a woman wanted to hold me since my mother died. Looking back, I realize I didn’t know enough to put my arms around her too.

  I don’t know what else I said beyond that, what more I could have offered, but we continued to talk for several minutes before Dr. Belcher reappeared. “They’re going to take your husband down to the O.R. now,” he said.

  “Can I go with him?” Alma asked, already gathering her purse, looking over Dr. Belcher’s shoulder to the doors that separated her from Linus.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Belcher said. “They’re already on their way.”

  “Can I at least say good-bye?” The grooves and shadows I’d seen on her face earlier—a play of light, I’d thought—had settled in, as if the previous features I’d come to know were a thin veneer easily splintered and swept away.

  Dr. Belcher took her hand in both of his. “I’ll say a prayer for you.” And then he left.

  Alma’s face was resolute. “I think I’ll go find the chapel now. Will you walk with me?”

  Detective Marcolini interrupted, his brown eyes twin pools of compassion. “We’d appreciate it if you stayed around. We still have a few questions.”

  But I was already guiding Alma to the exit. They’d have to wait.

  They did, of course, but I didn’t have anything to add when I returned. That was yesterday, hours ago, though not quite a full day. We’ve sat here in these chairs, in the family waiting area, allowing the television to do the talking between us, helping ourselves to syrupy coffee and Dixie cups of cold spring water. The only times we’ve stepped away have been to use the women’s room, though never together. Each time, Alma returns a little more withered, her eyes averted, swollen and bloodshot through. I’m tired of the odor of pine antiseptic used to mop the floors.

  “Bartholomew family?” A nurse is at the door, leaning against the doorjamb, her head peeking in.

  “Right here.” Alma stands, her knuckles taut, her purse dangling in front of her.

  “You can go in now.”

  We walk down the hallway, and I can’t help but wonder at the strength in Alma’s legs and back; how it is she’s able to stand erect in spite of the yoke of accusations and violence.

  As we pass the elevator, the doors glide open and Mike is standing there. He seems to be from my distant past, not yesterday; too much has happened in the hours in between. Though his clothes are pressed, his hair neat, and he’s shaved clean again, he manages to appear as wasted as I feel.

  He goes to Alma first. “How’s he doing?”

  “We’re going to see him now.”

  “With your permission, I’d like to see him after you.”

  Mike holds her stare and she doesn’t look away. Instead, she raises an eyebrow and tilts her chin. “No questions.” It’s a command not a plea.

  “Kate McCarthy from my office is downstairs with a couple of Whitman detectives—you met them yesterday,” Mike says. “They don’t know I’m here.”

  Alma looks to me, but before I can speak, she nods. “I’ll see how he is.”

  She walks away and I follow, but Mike catches my arm.

  “Clara.”

  There are so many thoughts caught in the furrow of his brow, his mouth, but I don’t want to hear any of them. I pull myself free.

  “I should have assigned a detail to his house. I should have known with a case like this, word would leak and some vigilante would go after him.” He pauses. “It’s my fault.”

  I nod and turn to follow Alma, but before I get far, he calls to me. “I’m sorry.”

  It’s as though I’ve been stabbed myself, the words cutting, spinning me around. My hand seeks comfort in a spiral of hair. “You’re sorry?”

  His hands are shoved into his overcoat pockets, tensed and balled, straining through the wool. “I was wrong. About Linus. I don’t know what he was doing, making those calls, but my gut tells me he didn’t intend to hurt anybody.”

  He’s staring at me, and it would be so easy to go to him now. Fall against his chest, allow him to bear the weight of my bones and troubles. I remember how strong his arms were around me, the smell at the hollow between his shoulders and neck. And I’m so very tired.

  But I am not a fool.

  If I were a different woman, I could tell Mike everything. That life is complex and messy, filled with cruelties beyond even his experiences. I could try to explain what it is to live among the dead, to bear witness to their last struggles for life, fighting for one more breath even when their lives weren’t worth living at all. The way their vessels constricted within their eyes, their throats, the way a hand can be found still grasping toward another moment. Just one more. I’ve seen that yearning inside and out. Guts clenched, muscles flexed. I could describe the pearls of bruises that encircle lovely throats, the shredded spleens from shod feet, the slashes and entry wounds and multitude of crushed skulls that needed reinforcing for open caskets. I would tell Mike that never before or since have I witnessed such sava
gery as I did when Precious Doe was discovered. I don’t know how it’s possible for mere skin and bones to contain something as combustible, as wholly wicked, as the evil that prowls our world, seeking the most vulnerable among us. I would tell Mike that monsters really do exist. Most of all, I would plead with him to recognize that Linus is a good man. He must be.

  “Linus didn’t hurt anyone.” It’s the best I can do.

  Mike falls into one of the plastic chairs near the elevator. His back is bowed, his elbows at his knees. He stares at the floor as he speaks. It’s a relief not to see his face.

  “Every day in my job and in my life, I have to somehow make right other people’s wrongs. And most times, there’s so much bad in the world, in my world, sometimes it’s hard to trust the good.” His voice is beaten and I can’t help being reminded of when Linus brought him into the basement to say farewell to his wife and unborn child.

  Mike stands before continuing. “You and I believe Linus didn’t kill Precious Doe, but my boss and the cops from Whitman are on their way up right now. He’s the prime suspect.”

  “He’s innocent.”

  He strides toward me, quick and sure. “But he knows something, Clara. He made the calls. How does he know?”

  I almost tell him then about the little girl and her dog Peanut, about the boyfriend, the untouchable Victor; but Alma interrupts.

  “Clara.” She’s down the hall standing just outside one of the rooms, her face resigned. “Linus is asking for you.”

  I go to her and behind me hear Mike say, “How is he?”

  Alma grasps my elbow, steering me aside before I go in. She’s now the woman I knew before tonight, formidably composed, solidly forthright. “The doctor said the best we can do is wait and see. It’s been a shock to his system. Their biggest concern in people his age is cardiac arrest. At least he’s off the respirator and can talk.”

  I shake my head and feel my mind tumble. It’s an effort not to give in to the faint. When Alma’s voice breaks through the fugue, I cling to it. “We need to be prepared for the worst. I’m going to go call Reverend Greene.”

  Mike and Alma continue speaking as I walk into Linus’s room. A nurse, blond and pretty, is tucking a crisp white blanket under him. There are countless tubes buried in and snaking out of his body. One is pumping yet more blood into him. It’s mesmerizing. His feet are somewhat propped, each encased in a blue plastic boot. Machines are at the ready, flashing, beeping their warnings: a platoon of sentries guarding his life.

  And there is Linus, his eyes closed, his face hidden under an oxygen mask. Even though the nurse is talking, his breathing crackles above her voice. Though she tries to smile, her eyes droop with pity. “You must be Clara. My name’s Julie. He’s resting now, but he’s been asking for you.” She adjusts an IV line and then reaches for a cord clipped to his bed.

  “This is his pain medication. He has an epidural, but if he wakes up and needs more, let me know. He’ll get it directly through this IV. It might make him a little spacey, but we want to make sure he’s comfortable.”

  She sets the cord back and points to another below it. “This is the call button; use it if he wakes in any distress. I’m right outside.” She pauses, reaching out to me and then pulling back. “Please don’t stay long, he’s very critical.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her words are too much and I’m grateful for the relative silence when she leaves. Linus’s hand is heavy in mine, huge and steady, the kind that’s known work. I trace the ridges of his knuckles, the lines of his palm. In spite of his current state there is strength here, a kind of sturdiness I’ve always known but never really acknowledged, not even to myself. How many times has he swallowed my hand with this one when he gave thanks at supper, placed this hand upon my shoulder to praise my work? And always I pulled away.

  “Clara?” His voice is muffled through the oxygen mask. He drags it down along his neck, wincing as he moves.

  “Are you in pain?” He manages a nod. I don’t call the nurse; instead I press the button, releasing more narcotics into his bloodstream. It doesn’t take long before the tension eases from his face.

  “You’re okay,” he says, his words slow.

  I nod, biting my cheek to stave off the tears.

  “I thought they was lying when I didn’t see you.”

  “I’ve been here the whole time. Don’t talk now, you need to rest.” I try to replace the oxygen mask, remembering the doctor’s warnings, but he brushes it away.

  “I’ve always loved you like you was my own.”

  “Try to rest.”

  “You need to know the truth.” He’s caught by a spasm, his chest contracting with each hack. I fit the mask over his face, pushing aside his hand.

  “How’s he doing?” Mike is standing in the doorway. Just beyond him in the hall, Alma is talking to Kate and the other Whitman detectives. Alma shakes her head, her arms crossed in protest.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  Mike walks around to the other side of Linus’s bed. He scans the array of equipment and turns his attention back to Linus, his hands braced against the metal railing. Linus motions to the mask. Mike pulls it free. I protest, but both ignore me.

  Linus clears his throat, the phlegm catching and then gurgling again. He looks to Mike. “I am the anonymous caller—don’t go blaming Reverend Greene. He was protecting me from the slings and arrows. We trusted you to do what’s right.”

  Mike squeezes the rails of Linus’s bed as he listens.

  Between the crowd outside and the intensity of this room, I feel my chest clutch and pull. “He needs to rest.”

  Linus waves me off, clearing his throat again, and I feel my own catch. “There are things that need saying before I die, Clara.”

  “You are not dying!” My whisper is fierce, and I almost believe it’s enough to frighten away the forces trying to claim him.

  For a moment his voice is as it was, rich and textured, filled with life. “Oh, I’m dying all right. They’re all here waiting for me to show them the way home. They been waiting a long time now.”

  “Linus.” Mike’s voice rings through this peculiar air that’s settled around us. “How did you know about Precious Doe?”

  “Mike,” I say. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s on a lot of medication.”

  Linus sputters. “Trecie. Trecie told me everything. Told me more that night you was looking for her at Clara’s. She was in the mourning room all along, with Angel.”

  Mike nods and I try not to imagine Trecie’s face transfixed by Angel’s dead one. “Why didn’t you tell us, Linus?” Mike persists. “We could have helped her.”

  Linus doesn’t answer, focused instead on some point beyond the foot of his bed. My mind is not my own, and I think of the other children hidden away behind Trecie’s apartment door. No one knows how many; no one would miss one. Perhaps another one went missing three years ago and no one noticed.

  “Linus,” Mike says, “do you know who did this to you?”

  Linus shakes his head and then begins to cough again, straining to sit up. “They’re here now. See them? Can’t you see them right there?” He’s pointing to the end of the bed as he calls to his specters. “You’re okay, the Lord’s coming to take us all home.”

  “Don’t leave me! Alma!” I cry out for her and she hurries into the room, past Mike, pushing him aside.

  “Linus?” Her hands press on either side of his face, pleading with him.

  “It’s okay, Alma, I’m going to see our Elton now.” He smiles as tears slip away, forming ever-widening spots on either side of his pillow. Then his body convulses and his breaths come in wispy, reckless succession. As if from a distance, the machines begin to scream their warnings, their beeps turning to loud, flat wails.

  “No!” I place my hands over the spot where his heart should beat, but there’s nothing.

  In the next moment, he grows quiet. In spite of the machines’ noise, the room has an eerie s
ilence about it. There’s a stillness about Linus, too: the way the muscles in his face relax, how his arms and legs fall limp against the bed. His face, it’s his face, one I know better than my own—though now it’s a shell, in an instant the life within it gone. It’s as if he’s disappeared (breathe, one-two-three). My body reacts without my knowledge and my hands are suddenly on him, pushing and pushing against his chest. I feel a rib crack beneath me. “Don’t leave me!”

  “Somebody help him!” Alma screams. She reaches for the nurse’s call button, her thumb pressing again and again. A voice through an intercom mumbles a response, but Julie is already running into the room, whipping her stethoscope free from her neck. She immediately replaces Linus’s oxygen mask and reaches for the nurse’s button.

  “I have a code blue.”

  Alma and I are thrust against the back wall while Mike slips out the door, and instantly the room is flooded with bodies hovering over Linus. I turn away when one of them plunges a tube down his throat. As Alma recites the Lord’s Prayer, I find myself looking around the room for the lost souls waiting for Linus to lead them home, wishing I could call him back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The snow billows in soft tufts, blanketing the bed of crumpled leaves that already fill the basement window wells. There is a delicate rustling as the flakes settle into place and then nothing as they smother all other sounds. The late-afternoon sun waning in its sky is further dulled by thickening clouds, stray wisps of light filter through here and there. I expect others will be cheered by the prospect of a white Christmas.

  It is frigid here in my workspace, surrounded by the frozen ground. With each exertion, my breath condenses before me.

  I remove an ivory taper from the drawer and fit it onto my worktable. Its new wick takes several matches before catching, sparking in protest. The voices from Mozart’s Requiem swell as the flame steadies and glows.

  Just this once there is no mask, no gloves between my skin and the body. I turn to the sink and let the water run, waving my fingers through the stream every so often, feeling it eventually warm from the initial cold splash. I hold my hand under as it begins to truly heat, clouds of steam filling the basin. It’s a thousand pinpricks against the numbness.