The Ice House

by Ray Ouellette

  That part of the menu he could believe since Vermont was the state right next door but the part about fresh-squeezed orange juice left him doubtful. Lynn ordered Texas toast and home fries. Right now the two of them were in pre-coffee oblivion. Frank managed to get the conversation going by bringing up Paul Owans, whose entries he had seen in the unofficial log and then noticed that they stopped. Lynn told him that she had learned that Paul Owans had been killed in a car crash and she suggested that they ask Scott the next time they see him. “He might know about Owans.”

  Lynn went back to staring at an ice cube melting in a glass of water.

  “You're staring, Frank kidded.

  “Was I making my drink uncomfortable by staring at it?

  “I was jealous. What were you thinking about?”

  “About how improbable it was for Lawrence Lowell to make all that money without being somewhat rich to start out. Even with pornography or whatever else he did to get started.”

  “You mean at that relatively young age?” Frank said.

  “Yes. But I mean at any age. I mean he made billions. He would have had to make nothing but one right decision after another to build up a fortune like that. One wrong decision and it all would topple, especially in his early days when he probably didn't have much money. Whether it was a crime decision or a business decision, every one would have had to be right.”

  “Yeah, I've got an uncle about fifty, and it seems like every decision he makes no matter if he spends weeks deciding seems to turn out wrong. He's always been self-employed in various businesses and something always goes wrong. He's not incompetent...a smart guy...a degree in business administration...but something always goes wrong and he's back where he started.” Frank took a breath and continued. “I remember once talking to him and he said how it would drive him nuts when one of his businesses, that he had slaved at and tried to do everything right at, went downhill for no explainable reason and then he'd hear about someone getting rich making candles in their garage.

  “I've heard stories like that too,” said Lynn. The Midas touch. Can't do anything wrong, God in your corner type of thing.

  “The Gods do seem to favor some people.”

  “Yeah,” said Lynn, 'the old saying 'Some people have all the luck.”

  “It's as if some people have the gods whispering in their ear telling them what will work and what won't.”

  “Lawrence Lowell.” Lynn confirmed. “I wonder why. Why are some people put into power and others are just constantly stomped down. It doesn't even seem to have anything to do with who is good and who is evil.”

  “I wonder,” Frank added, “if the gods are still on his side.”

  “Let's hope not!” Lynn pretended to be staring at her drink again then looked up coyly without lifting her head and said, “What were you thinking about?”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a building-shaking, window-rattling boom, as if one of the gods they had been talking about had smashed a giant fist down on the parking lot. They were ready to dismiss it as a close lightning strike and its thunder or maybe a loud sonic boom, but then over by the windows they noticed a few people up from their tables looking out. One of the people at the windows said, “Call 911..there's a car on fire...someone injured,” but people already had phones out by the time the person finished saying that.

  Many of the people rushed outside either to help or to look.

  “Wasn't your car parked off in that direction?”

  “Yeah, we'd better take a look.”

  They went outside and walked around to the scene of the explosion. Their exclamations blurred together as Frank said “Christ!” and Lynn said “God!”

  Frank's car was blown apart around the hood, the roof was peeled back and the doors hung each by one hinge. Parts were scattered around the lot and as the car burned, upholstery and plastic parts gave off black smoke. A few people ventured near to see if they could help the person who lay sprawled about 30 feet from the car, the distance he got before dying either from the force of the blast or from being burned. His clothing was destroyed by the fire, a leg of his pants still smoldering. His hair was burned off, little blackened crinkled bits all that remained. Those who went closer saw that the eyebrows were burned off too and they retreated because of the smell of burning hair, and blistering skin, one man gagging, going down on his knees, then throwing up

  Ash from the fire settled around the area. Lynn felt a small fleck settle on her nose. She brushed it off and shivered, thinking that it might be a piece of the man's clothing...or of the man himself, a blackened particle that had possibly once been his hair. and would now end up becoming an insignificant part of the ground.

  “What happened?” said Lynn. “That poor man. He must have been nearby when the car exploded.”

  “I've seen one engine fire, but I don't think a car can just explode for no reason like that,” said Frank. “I wonder if...” He moved Lynn away from the crowd so no one would hear. “Did you notice the remains of that hat near the man? It was burned pretty badly, but it reminded me of a chauffeur's hat.” Their eyes met in a way that said they thought the same thing

  Lynn said, “Mrs. Lowell wants her husband back?”

  “And I'm the one standing in the way.”

  They watched, then Frank added. “It's lucky that chauffeurs don't know much about bombs.”

  Lynn's expression didn't change much in response to Frank's attempt to appear to be not totally shaken.

  They heard sirens approaching and weren't looking forward to dealing with the police again so soon. Frank sighed and he and Lynn walked over to wait for the arrival of the police.

  CHAPTER 22

  After finishing with the questioning and the report with the police, who thankfully were not Southford's finest again, Frank took a last look at the burned out pile of rubble that had been his car, then Frank and Lynn found Mrs. Lowell's address, rented a car making damn sure not to forget to add in the rental agency's insurance, and drove to Mrs. Lowell's front gate.

  After identifying themselves to the guard, they waited as he spoke to the house by intercom. A transient look of surprise crossed the guard's face. He motioned Frank forward and the gates swung open, creaking the whole way as if they hadn't been used much. After passing a row of garages attached to the house, they drove around front and pulled up under an overhanging portico. They were surprised to see Mrs. Lowell standing outside, when they pulled up in front of the house.

  Frank stepped out. Mrs. Lowell?”

  “Yes.” Her face was as expressionless as the marble statue that stood to the side of the entrance. Somehow Frank didn't feel hatred for Mrs. Lowell, even though his car had been bombed, an attempt made on his life. An inexplicable feeling of compassion filled him and he wondered why. He felt it was misplaced, so he just told her off.

  “Are you missing a chauffeur by any chance, “Mrs. Lowell.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Back on the highway, a few miles out of town, at the motel we were staying at, there's a blown up car and a dead man that reminded me somewhat of a chauffeur.”

  “What? She released a sarcastic laugh then said, “Your car I take it?”

  “My car!” Frank said, pointing to his chest emphatically.

  “I see,” she said calmly. “Do you really believe that I tried to kill you? Do you think I want my husband brought back from the dead?” Lynn got out of the car once it looked like here wasn't going to be any immediate violence. Mrs. Lowell continued. “A lot of wives worry about how their husband will react if they gain a few pounds, acquire a few gray hairs.” The guard arrived running and Mrs. Lowell dismissed him back to his post with a flick of her wrist. He walked away, panting, occasionally glancing back. “Can you imagine how I feel right now faced with the prospect of my husband seeing me aged forty years when his last memory of me was young and attractive. I don't think he'll be too anxious to end his forty years of celibacy by carrying me off to bed, do you?”


  She sounded convincing about not being guilty. “You're an attractive woman Mrs. Lowell,” said Frank.

  “Maybe...if we had aged together. Not this way. Just imagine, if you will, your wife...” she turned to Lynn. “You are his wife?”

  “Friends,” said Lynn, having been caught off guard about how to describe her relationship with Frank. “We work together.”

  “Imagine being in a room with a hypothetical wife. She's beautiful. She leaves the room and ten seconds later she returns and is forty years older, her mental faculties about half of what they were. The whole damn geriatric package. How would you feel? Do I make my point?”

  “I'm sorry,” said Lynn.

  Mrs. Lowell shook her head then said, “How could I imagine I'd live another forty years and the project would still be going on? And now they notify me they're on the verge of success. Why now? Why not twenty years ago I was still relatively young. Why not 100 years from now when I'll be dead and not around to see the look on his face when he sees me?” She lifted her hands up to the sky as much as she could manage and let them slap down at her side. “My God! I should have thrown myself in the liquid nitrogen with him. Like an Indian woman on her god-damned husband's funeral pyre.”

  Frank gave Lynn and uneasy 'what do we do now?' look.

  “Mrs. Lowell,' said Lynn. “Are you trying to tell us that the car's blowing up was an accident? That the dead man was a car thief that blew himself up trying to jump start the car?”

  “Hot wire,” Frank corrected. “But that wouldn't blow it up. It had to be a bomb that blew up while it was being wired to the car.

  Mrs. Lowell's mind, a bit drifty, wandered during Frank's explanation of hot wiring and he called her back. “Mrs. Lowell?”

  “The staff!” exclaimed Mrs. Lowell. “I don't know if you're aware of the money they stand to receive upon successful completion of the project.”

  Mrs. Lowell invited them in. “We should talk. And I need to sit down.”

  Frank noticed a brass plaque to the right of the door with the wording 'Lowell Manor, dedicated 1963' cast in it. He assumed this was the year the house was built.

  Mrs. Lowell led them through the entrance into a large foyer that was dominated by an oil painting depicting a scene, from an earlier century, maybe along the Hudson River. As she led them through the foyer, Frank tried to remember some of his art classes. Hudson River School? Albert Bierstadt was the name that came to mind. But whoever the artist was, Frank was willing to bet that it was an original, and that it had a provenance of New York's financial elite through the 19th century into this century.

  The foyer had twin curved stairways on each side, leading to the second floor. The furniture definitely didn't look, to Frank, like anything you'd go out and buy at any furniture store no matter how high end, probably early American originals.

  The walls were tastefully covered along the top in what looked like hand stenciling, judging by the slight variations from one part of the design to the next. The theme of everything that Frank saw so far seemed to be hand carving, hand tooling, individual lathe work, hand painting and finishing, hand crafting, an expensive, tasteful alternative to the machine-made, uniformity that seemed to appeal to all classes in the late fifties and early sixties.

  They went though an arched doorway with an elaborate wood carving of a lake steamer above the arch. 50 to 100 hours of work in that, Frank thought.

  Lynn expected to be taken into a large formal living room with a massive fireplace. Instead, Mrs. Lowell led them into a small library with almost every inch of wall space devoted to hardcover books, many appearing to be leather bound. Walnut cabinet shelving with glass doors for the older-looking books were the rule. They sat down at Mrs. Lowell's invitation in oversize leather upholstered chairs. The scent of vintage books filled the room. Frank was pleased to see a Childe Hassan oil painting on one of the few spaces without shelves. He recognized it because in art class in college he had fallen in love with Childe Hassan's portrayals of the streets and parks of Boston. This one depicted Boston Common around the turn of the 20th century. It comforted him, a bit of home, and made him feel less insecure.

  After discussing the problem Frank had been having, Mrs. Lowell said, “I always wondered if something like this might happen. I had a lot of time to think about what might happen if there is such a thing as reincarnation and Law's spirit was forced to be reincarnated. What would be in his body if he was brought back to life and his spirit was not available?”

  Frank thought that this line of philosophy sounded familiar. But he figured there was not one citizen of Southford who didn't wonder about that prospect at one time or another in the last forty years.

  Mrs. Lowell continued, “And you have no memory of being Law whatsoever?” Frank shook his head. “Then maybe you'd be interested in hearing a bit about him. It's not my favorite subject. He wasn't the perfect husband. There were difficult times, but one gets used to a person.” A blank look came over her face as her thoughts seemed to wander back.

  Frank ended the silence. “We did learn a lot from an old man we met. He told us about the project and about how the town depends on it.”

  Mrs. Lowell nodded absent-mindedly and said, “I was there. The day they froze him.”

  “You watched?” Lynn shook off the shiver that went up her spine. “That must have been difficult.” The scent of expensive perfume, perhaps applied a bit too liberally finally over powered the rare book smell.

  “I begged him to wait. He wouldn't. So I watched. His older brother begged him too. By phone. He was in Europe talking to a doctor about an experimental treatment that showed promise for Law's disease. Law wouldn't wait. He was beginning to see signs of deteriorating. He wanted to come back whole, not with all kinds of damage from the disease. So he refused to delay any longer.” She shook her head slowly.

  “So...I watched.” She got drifty again as if reviewing the event in her mind. “He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek goodbye. Like someone going off to work. That was it. He never said another word to me, never even glanced at me again. He just got right down to the business he was there for.”

  A man came into Mrs. Lowell's library with tea and they each took a cup. Frank felt more like a beer but accepted the tea and listened to Mrs. Lowell. “Law said he didn't know if he'd see Mike, the chief scientist, or the others again, that maybe it would be their descendants. He likened it to an expedition to the stars, where the original space travelers wouldn't live long enough but their descendants would eventually get to the goal. The difference would be that the space travelers would see their goal draw nearer each day of the mission but the goal of reviving Law would lie in the indefinite future. But with unlimited funding, and complete financial security, they could devote themselves completely to the project.” The conversation seemed to be shaking out the cobwebs of forty years and her mind was operating clearly now. She looked intent and moved forward to the edge of her seat.

  Somebody yelled 'Three cheers for Mr. Lowell!' she said the word cheers quite loudly, startling Lynn and Frank. “Law smiled as if he were looking forward to this. I felt ice cold and he was the one about to be frozen.”

  “You're not saying he was frozen alive?” Lynn's eyes were fixed on Mrs. Lowell “What about the law? I mean isn't that something like legally assisting suicide?”

  “When you've got the power my husband had, you make the law.”

  “God, imagine the courage it must have taken.” Lynn said.

  “Death is a source of fear to those who are dragged out of it kicking and screaming. Instead, Law was about to exit life plotting and scheming, completely in control. He was about to treat death the same way he treated his business competitors, with no concessions. He had every confidence that he'd be back.” She put her cup down and looked away momentarily. “God I hated him for that. I knew I could never do it, that I'd die some day and my brain would deteriorate before I was frozen, assuming that I'd even want to be. I knew that my death
would not be one that was under control, that death would sneak up on me when I least expected it and catch me totally unprepared, and that I'd exit kicking and screaming.”

  She became silent for a moment, put her finger to her lower lip, deep in thought, removed it, then said, “Sitting there watching him, I had for the first time in my life, a real fear of death. It demands so much of you. There's fear, there's loss, there's the feeling that you should have done more in your life. There's the guilt. Did I do enough for my children and relatives? Did I leave the world a better place. There's often the suffering before death. It doesn't let you ever feel good about it. You want to fight against it. There's the thought, 'If I had more time I could achieve so much more. Things that I should have already done. I knew Law wasn't thinking these things but I knew I would be when my time came.”” She looked down and was silent again.

  Frank thought he should say something to change the mood but came up with nothing.

  Mrs. Lowell waved her finger in the air in a circular motion. “Lawrence told them to begin the transfer. And that was that. It began. His blood was circulated out of his body and mixed with a solution of some kind and then circulated back into his body with the solution in it. While Law sat there and watched. This solution was for preventing ice-damage to the cells, the big problem they would be working on.”

  “I remember,' she said with a smile for the first time, “one of the staff, the cancer specialist had to sit down and wipe the sweat off his forehead.

  “I met him,” said Frank.

  “An odious person.” Mrs. Lowell shook her head.

  “I heard he was thrown out of his previous state...or had to leave.”

  “I don't know why my husband chose him...I suppose I really do though. What other doctor would sit there and monitor instruments showing a man dying and let it happen?”

  Frank shrugged. “I guess things like that are required...people like that are required for a project like this.”

  Mrs. Lowell nodded once and continued to tell about Randolph Hill. “He looked whiter than I figured Law would look in a short while. Mike Bostwick looked at him and said something like, 'It's all right. This is what Mr. Lowell wants. But then Bostwick himself was interrupted by a gasp from Law. I had known this wasn't going to painless. Law put his hands to his head.” She demonstrated. “He was fidgeting and was pale by now from the solution diluting his blood. Soon it became obvious that he was in great pain and agitated. Law looked at Mike, then I saw him glancing down at that damn infusion tube. Mike rushed over with another member of the staff, a Bill something, He yelled 'Come on' and 'Quick now!' They engaged restraints on Law according to his previous instructions. Law was panicking and thrashing around. They added tranquilizer into the infusion. I got up to leave but couldn't do it. I couldn't look away. I felt guilty, like a spectator at a train wreck. But I couldn't look away.”