Flame Out

by M. P. Cooley

  I agreed, and Dave stood. Rather than rushing out, he went to Annie, placing both hands on her shoulders.

  “Thank you, Annie,” he said.

  In true Annie fashion, she argued. “Why are you thanking me for bringing you this news?”

  “You were being a pal,” he said. “I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

  Annie threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly, and after a second Dave hugged her back. They broke and she hustled out, Dave following close behind.

  “Need backup, June?” Hale whispered.

  “I’ll keep you posted.” I watched Dave grab keys off his desk and then pat all his pockets, checking for missing items. “He’s going to need friends more than anything.”

  Dave didn’t wait for me, walking toward the exit, and I jogged to catch up. He passed Lorraine, clear eyed, but with tear tracks running through her coral blush.

  Dave was quiet on the drive. He flinched visibly as the car rumbled over the bridge, the river water high with spring runoff and recent rains. We pulled up in front of his aunt’s house, and I got out of the car. Dave hesitated, but a curtain in the house moved aside—we’d been spotted.

  The slam of his car door sounded loud on the quiet street. He paused on the sidewalk, looking up at the house. “What do I say, June?”

  “You want me to do it? I can.”

  “I gotta, but what do I say? ‘Lucas, Mom didn’t run out.’ Or”—and he laughed bitterly—“‘Lucas, remember how you always wished Mom was dead? Well, now she is.’”

  “Is that how you feel?”

  He sighed. “No. My brother, though, he went through more of Mom’s bullshit. By the time she left . . . was killed . . . he hated her.”

  “Stick to the facts,” I said. “Facts are straightforward.”

  “Nothing with my mother was straightforward.”

  The front door opened. “You staking out my house?” Lucas called. His smile faltered as Dave got close. “What’s wrong? Tara OK?”

  “Tara’s fine. Aunt Natalya here?” Dave asked. “We need to talk to you alone.”

  “Grocery shopping,” Lucas said, his eyes darting from Dave to me. “June staying?”

  “Yeah. She’s here in an official capacity.”

  Lucas opened the door wide and we shuffled past. A plastic mat wound a path through the living room, keeping the cream-colored carpet clean. The brothers moved to a gold couch, the fabric squeaking as they sat down. A Stephen King novel rested open on the arm, and on the table sat a glass of cola, the color washed out with melted ice and, I was pretty sure, rum.

  “It’s Mom,” Dave said, never breaking eye contact with Lucas. “She’s dead.”

  Dave’s brother frowned. “What? Where was she? How’d you find her?”

  Dave explained that the woman found in the barrel in the factory that had been all over the news hadn’t been Luisa Lawler, but instead their mother.

  “Wait. She’s been there since . . .”

  “Yeah,” Dave said. “That last run wasn’t a run.”

  Lucas stood up, grabbing his hair and pulling. Dave rushed to intercept, clutching at his brother’s elbow.

  Lucas didn’t pull away. “No!”

  Dave grappled him into a hug. The two brothers rocked, Lucas sobbing harshly. They stood like that for a few minutes, and I tried to figure out how I could slip out. I shouldn’t have come. They needed time to mourn.

  Lucas struggled out of Dave’s arms, pushing him away and running to the kitchen, a vomiting sound coming a moment later. I went to follow, but Dave held my arm.

  “Give him a minute,” he said. “Let him get himself together.”

  “Sure. You OK?”

  Dave looked over my shoulder to where we could hear Lucas half choking and half sobbing. “That went . . . well, more or less as I expected.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, it could have been nastier. A tirade on how she deserved it.” Dave sounded bewildered. “Am I crazy, or did he seem sad?”

  “He’s a grieving son.”

  “I expected . . . not that.”

  The retching had stopped, and the two of us went into the kitchen. Lucas spat twice into the sink, before washing the vomit down the drain. He left the water running, sticking his mouth under the tap and drinking directly from the faucet.

  “That stupid bitch went and got herself killed.” Lucas wiped away tears with the end of his T-shirt. His breath hitched. “And I helped bury her.”

  Dave narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “It means exactly what I said.” Lucas faced the sink. Rather than vomiting he stared out the window, to the backyard and the field beyond. “You found Mom behind a fake wall, right? Over on the right side of the Sleep-Tite basement?”

  “Yes,” Dave said.

  Lucas took a hitching breath. “I helped build that wall.”

  Dave pulled his arms tight across his middle, clenching his eyes closed. Already, I regretted combining police work with helping Dave. He shook his head twice, opening his eyes and letting his arms drop to his sides before walking over, leaning back against the counter next to his brother. Unlike Lucas he faced me, gently bumping his brother’s shoulder with his own.

  I pulled out my notebook. “Lucas, when did you build this wall?”

  “A few days after Mom went missing.” I was surprised at how easily the date came to him, but realized that as much as he professed not to care, his mother’s disappearance had never been forgotten. “Sleep-Tite always closed down the last week of summer to do cleaning and repairs. Me and a couple of other guys, Bernie hired us to pull apart machines, replace furnace filters, shit like that. And build the wall.”

  “Did you have any idea what was in those barrels, Lucas?”

  “No.” Lucas continued to stare out the window, entranced. The back field was filled with wildflowers, soft whites and greens, with purple dotted here and there.

  “Not even the chemicals?” I asked. Dave opened his mouth to protest, and I held up my hand, silencing him.

  “Those I suspected.” Lucas turned, facing me. “I feel bad, especially when I picture Tara playing in places where the chemicals could be seeping into the ground. But back then, I wasn’t sorry about it. Bernie said he would put in a good word with the Judge, who had his finger in all the contracts for the 787 extension back then. Deal got us our union cards.”

  “Who’s ‘us’?” I asked.

  “Dan Jaleda was a sort of foreman, but the rest of the guys . . . I can’t remember. Jake Medved dropped off the supplies—the plasterboard and sawed bricks.”

  Lucas explained that they hadn’t built a real brick wall—“not enough time”—but rather a fake, sawed-in-half bricks covering a sheetrock base.

  “Is Jake Medved related to Judge Medved?” I asked, realizing I might have stumbled on another half-brother in the twisted Medved/Lawler family tree.

  “Ugh. Yes,” Lucas said, pulling out his phone. “Which you just reminded me . . . I’m supposed to start my shift at the bar in thirty minutes. How the fuck am I—” He paused. “I can’t lose this job . . . I’ll lose custody.”

  “Tell them there’s been a death in the family,” Dave said.

  “But don’t mention anything about your mother,” I said. “Not yet.”

  Dave and I returned to the living room. From the kitchen I could hear Lucas’s voice: “Stop busting my balls, here. I’ll cover your shifts next week.”

  “How come mentioning Jake reminded him to call in to work?” I asked.

  Dave kept his voice low. “Lucas works at Jake’s Social Club over on Ontario. Jake . . . Medved, owns the place.”

  “A social club?” I asked. “That serves alcohol?”

  “That’s all they do, really. Only reason they’re a social club instead of a bar is because Jake Medved’s racked up some felony assault charges back in the ’60s. From what my dad said, if you found someone with their head bashed in on the Island, Jake did it.” I heard L
ucas say good-bye, and Dave added quickly, “Aunt Natalya always had a soft spot for Jake because they escaped the Nazis together. Or was it the Russians? Probably both.”

  Lucas returned, throwing himself onto the couch.

  “That shithead Brian pulled one of his power trips. The guy’s itching to fire me. If I lose this job, well . . . I can think of no more fitting tribute to our deadbeat mother.” He grabbed his rum and Coke and took a long drink. “Bernie Lawler killed her, didn’t he?”

  “No question,” Dave said. “He did his wife and kid, and then Mom. He placed the order to brick in the barrels, right?” Lucas nodded. “With this monster, we might reopen a couple of other cold cases.”

  Dave wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near this case, but for now I kept my mouth shut. I planned to question Lucas further about the wall once we were alone.

  “When did you last see your mother, Lucas?” I asked.

  Lucas’s fury had begun to seep out, a calmness returning, however briefly. “Me and Mom, we both had shifts at Sleep-Tite. Bernie Lawler came from the Island and gave jobs to his old neighbors, including me, a high-school dropout, and Mom, a slut famous for running off at the drop of a hat.” Lucas rolled his eyes at Bernie’s stupidity. “You could still do that then, get a job without a college degree. Nowadays, you even need it for construction, not that there are any jobs.”

  Lucas sat back in his chair, lost in the past. “Mom and me did different work, me in the loading area, and Mom at the cutting machines, slicing up pieces of fabric, cute shit with lambs or dancing sheep. Other ladies, they’d do the actual sewing. I tried to pretend we weren’t related and stayed as far away as I could.” He reached over and drained his glass. “We worked different shifts, so it wasn’t hard. She took nights because she and mornings didn’t get along. She could barely deal with eleven p.m.” Lucas stood up, grabbing his glass. “I’m gonna make another. Want one?”

  Both Dave and I said no, me because I was working, and Dave because he thought he was. We remained silent until Lucas returned.

  I let Lucas resettle on the couch. “Did anyone report seeing her at work that last day?”

  Dave jumped in. “There’s mixed reports. Your dad did a check, Lyons, after I filed the missing person report. That was six months later, though.”

  “And I hadn’t seen her since two days before she went away,” Lucas said. “I was out partying with friends, came home and found Mom in the kitchen. Was one a.m., and she’s sitting there smoking cigarette after cigarette, getting good and primed to wake up Dad and fight.”

  “She was drinking?”

  “She usually was. But remember, Vera . . . our dear mother, was a nightmare stone cold sober, telling my Dad how he wasn’t a man, that she hated being tied to such a useless loser for the rest of her life. That’s what I meant about the mouth. She’d get into screaming matches with anyone, and she didn’t need a drink to do it.”

  “Like with Mrs. Welgas,” Dave laughed. “Mom found out her son pelted me with chestnuts. Mom went and punched her, said her son was next if he didn’t stay away from me.”

  A key sounded in the lock. The door swung open, and a frail hand dropped plastic grocery bags inside the door. Dave stood up, moving to help his Aunt Natalya, who was struggling to collapse the granny cart she’d been pushing. He grabbed it, pulling three times before it shut, the cheap wheels spinning as he lifted it off the ground and slammed it together. She heaved herself over the doorjamb, twisting herself over the step.

  She unbuttoned her black cloth coat, stopping when she saw Lucas.

  “Your job! Shcho z vamī?” She moved toward Lucas, but Dave blocked her way.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him, Aunt Natalya.” Dave combed his hair with his fingers, trying to flatten his springing curls. “There’s been some news.”

  Natalya reached up, stilling his hand. “Squashing your hair when you are afraid. Like your father.” She looked back and forth between the brothers. “What has happened?”

  “They found Vera,” Lucas said, his comment lost as he gulped another drink.

  “What?”

  Dave gripped her hand in his. “Aunt Natalya, Mom’s dead.”

  “Oh, my poor boys.” She pulled her hand from Dave, covering her mouth. “After all these years.” She composed herself quickly, pushing Dave toward the couch. “Sit down. I will make you tea.” Refusing to listen to protests, she pulled herself through the living room, heavy step followed by a light one, stopping briefly in front of me.

  “June, so kind you are to be with David.”

  “Lyons isn’t here for me, teta,” Dave said. “She’s here to investigate Mom’s murder.”

  Natalya frowned. “Now is time for the family to comfort each other. Not for police.”

  “Teta, you never think it is time for the police, but getting this solved fast? I would get comfort from that,” Dave said.

  “And opening old wounds? Do it fast and quick,” Lucas said.

  Natalya continued through to the kitchen, and I heard the sound of water running followed by a kettle slamming down on a stove. I decided to pick up where I’d left off, worried Aunt Natalya might shut down this questioning as being disrespectful of the dead.

  I spoke low and quick. “So she was off booze?”

  “Yeah,” Dave said. “For about a year.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Lucas said. “Dad got pissed at me when he found a bunch of bottles in the basement, accused me of bringing booze into the house. That was all her, and I told Dad. He watched her like a hawk after that, dropping her off at work and picking her up, but she had her ways, slipping away while he worked.”

  “So she was drinking,” I confirmed.

  “And doing drugs. Enough dealers worked at the plant. I got my pot there, and cocaine was king back then. She loved cocaine.”

  “Where’d she get the money, though?” Dave said. “Dad took her paycheck.”

  “She could always scrape together cash for what she cared about,” Lucas said. “I bet some new boyfriend bought it for her.”

  I could see Dave getting angry, slowly but surely. Natalya saved the day, carrying in a tray loaded with a whole almond cake that looked like it weighed more than Natalya, plates, and small cups of tea, the scent spicy and sweet. The china cups were ivory, birds painted in gold and blood-red enamel darting along the edge.

  “Beautiful,” I said, admiring the cup while Natalya handed out pieces of cake.

  “One unbroken thing I smuggled out of Ukraine, my mother’s teacups. Even my hip”—she tapped her flank twice—“the Soviets smashed that to pieces.”

  Lucas raised a cup to her. “You outsmarted the Red Army and the Nazis.”

  I offered her my seat. She declined, taking a straight-back chair. I asked her about Vera.

  “She was troubled, our Vera. She was born in safety here, but she was raised by people like me, fighting for every meal, every breath. Ukraine was hard place. Stalin starved us, shipping grain from our beautiful breadbasket over Black Sea, to pretend he was a big man, a world leader. I lived because Stalin’s force, his secret police, missed one sunflower, growing not in field but next to my home, hidden behind a post.”

  I thought of the sunflowers that lined Natalya’s garden and realized they were for more than show.

  “Every day, Mother gave me seeds from sunflower, a handful at sunrise and sunset. Between Stalin and Hitler, I spent my childhood dreaming of wheat, of food.” Natalya got a faraway look in her eye before refocusing hard on me. “It is no way to live, and makes people desperate, like feral cats. That was Vera’s family. That’s where she came from.”

  “How long were she and Dave and Lucas’s father—”

  “Taras,” Dave said. He was perched on the edge of the couch, and I didn’t know if he wanted to be asking the questions or answering them.

  “Yes, Taras. How long were they married?”

  “Nineteen sixty . . .” Natalya shook her head. “Vera was no more th
an fifteen, pregnant with Lucas.”

  “Sixty-seven,” Lucas said. “Knocked up and unmarried.”

  “Taras made it right. In that time, we Ukrainians got married earlier. Exquisite girl like that, it was almost worse than being crippled.” She touched her hip. “This world gave her little, but she had beauty, and men, they wanted to use it up. Except for my brother. Marrying Taras was best thing she ever did.”

  “Were you and Taras close?”

  “Taras was born when I was fourteen years of age. My three sisters starved, and my two brothers were stolen by Black Raven, Stalin’s police force, Stalin’s thugs, who came at night, grabbing people from their beds, never to be seen alive again. Taras was child of sorrow, born months after father was conscripted into Red Army to be slaughtered on fields of Poland. Mother died before Taras’s first birthday, and he became my baby. I promised her I would do anything to save Taras. I did.” She straightened her neck, imperial. “He and I escaped, following behind the Red Army and slipping into the American side before the Russians locked everything down.”

  “You got the Medveds out too, don’t forget,” Dave said. “I don’t know how you did it.”

  “There is a saying, ‘A hungry wolf is stronger than a satisfied dog.’ I was wolf, but Taras, even starving and cold, he never lost sweetness or gentleness.”

  Dave smiled. “Dad liked to be nice to weaker things. Small animals, hurt birds.”

  “But Vera couldn’t take kindness,” Natalya said. “It is common. When everyone’s fighting over scraps of bread, you believe others’ kindness come with strings, that you will be tricked in trusting. Taras confounded her.”

  “Dad never gave up on her,” Dave said.

  “Except the last time,” Lucas said. “He always told us she’d come back, that only death would keep mom away. That time, he didn’t say it.” Lucas put the tea down and picked up his rum and coke again. “Me, I knew she’d stay lost if she found a boyfriend with a never-ending supply of cocaine and vodka.”