Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  “Anna, there you are!”

  Anna’s eyes focused on her sister-in-law, Roslyn, who waddled down the hall toward her. The short, pear-shaped woman had black mascara streaks running down both cheeks.

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for—oh, my God, you’re bleeding!” Roslyn hurried to Anna’s side, grabbed her left wrist, and forced her hand palm up. “Oh, God, Anna, what did you do?”

  “She’s gone, Rosy,” Anna said quietly. “My—my baby’s gone.”

  “I know, honey,” Roslyn said shakily. She let go of Anna’s wrist, then quickly dug through her shoulder bag and pulled out a blue silk scarf. She wrapped it around Anna’s injured hand.

  “They—they wouldn’t let me stay with her.”

  “My poor, Anna,” Roslyn said, and softly touched Anna’s cheek. “How hard this must be for you.”

  “She’s all alone now. Gone forever.”

  Roslyn shook her head slowly, tears following mascara tracks. “She will never be alone, Anna. Thalia will be with us always, in our hearts. Her memory will live there forever.”

  Anna stared at her numbly. “But you cannot feel the breath of a memory or feel the warmth of its skin when it kisses you goodnight, can you?”

  Roslyn let out a little sob, then stooped and picked the knife up from the floor. After tucking it into her bag, she stood and took hold of Anna’s arm. “Come. We need to find someone to look at your hand. You’re cut pretty bad.”

  Anna felt Roslyn gently tug on her arm, and before she knew it, she was following her obediently down the corridor.

  Left then right, left again, left again, then right. It seemed to take forever before they reached a set of steel elevator doors. Roslyn pressed the down button, and for a fraction of a second, Anna saw her reflection split in half when the shiny metal doors opened. The image looked like she felt—divided, ripped in two, never to be made whole again.

  A middle-aged woman with bottle-blonde hair followed them into the elevator, and Anna pressed herself against the back wall. Roslyn stood next to her. The hoist hummed, then lowered them from the third floor to the second. Between the second and first floor, Anna heard something that made her stand at attention.

  Roslyn leaned closer to her and whispered, “We’re almost there.”

  “Shh, listen,” Anna said, stepping away. She pressed a hand to the elevator wall. “Can you hear it?”

  The bottle-blonde woman glanced over her shoulder, then gawked at the blood soaked scarf. She inched closer to the doors.

  “What?” Roslyn asked. “I don’t hear anything but elevator noise.”

  “It’s her, Rosy.” Anna went to the elevator panel and jabbed frantically at the numbered buttons.“Can’t you hear? She’s playing it. Thalia’s playing her music box!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A cadaver, eating a chicken salad sandwich.

  That thought rolled continuously through Janet’s mind as she loaded the dishwasher, one eye locked on Wilson Savoy. She couldn’t help but stare. The man looked nothing like she remembered. For as long as she’d known him, her father-in-law had been an imposing man, tall and robust in stature and presence. He’d carried the temperament of a pit bull and the attitude of a selfish, manipulating asshole. The man who sat at her kitchen table, however, was gaunt and bowed, with a gray, waxy complexion. His eyes held a withered, defeated look, and his physical fortitude seemed to be that of a cancer victim about to cross the threshold to eternity.

  “So why didn’t you invite me?” Wilson asked. He took another bite of chicken salad sandwich and rolled his eyes. “Heaven. You always were a good cook, Janet.”

  “It’s from Champagne’s Deli,” Janet said quietly. She closed the dishwasher, grabbed a dishtowel, and wiped down an already clean countertop. She peered over at Michael, who sat across the table from his father. He stared at Wilson in silence, his eyes pained, his jaw muscles flexing rhythmically. Ellie lay against Michael’s chest, her head resting against his left shoulder as she slept. Michael patted her back gently, absently. Janet could only imagine the emotions roiling inside her husband. Three years was a long time to be steeped in resentment.

  During the pizza reception that had followed Ellie’s recital, Michael told Janet about Wilson’s arrival at the funeral home, and she’d told him about the man at the gas pumps. Neither had been overtly surprised by the other’s news. What did surprise them, though, was Wilson’s appearance at their front door, tumbler of bourbon in hand, twenty minutes after they’d returned home.

  “Store bought, huh?” Wilson said with a shake of his head. “Could’ve fooled me.” A few seconds of awkward silence passed before he added, “It’s the truth, you know.” He gestured toward Ellie with his chin.“I’d have gone to her dance thing if you’d told me about it.”

  Michael got up from the table, his face reddening. Ellie stirred in his arms. “Since when do you care about dance recitals?” Michael asked in a loud whisper.

  Wilson wolfed down the last of his sandwich, washed it down with the remaining bourbon, then covered his mouth to staunch a belch. He grinned apologetically. “First time for everything, I guess.”

  Janet, sensing a Vesuvian eruption about to occur in Michael, tossed the dishtowel into the sink and went over to him.

  “I’ll bring her to bed,” Janet said, reaching for Ellie. Michael’s face softened immediately, and he handed their daughter over to her.

  Ellie nestled against Janet’s shoulder, then abruptly lifted her head and opened one eye. “It’s morning?” she asked.

  Janet kissed her cheek. “Nope, still nighttime.”

  Ellie rubbed her eyes, then looked down at Wilson. “Your hair’s white like a snowman’s,” she said with a smile.

  Wilson laughed, then coughed so hard he gagged. When he caught his breath, he said, “And you’re cute as a button.”

  “Are you sick?” Ellie asked. She pointed to the pantry. “’Cause Mama gives me that yucky stuff in there when I’m sick. You want some? You can have—” She looked up at Janet. “Mama, you’re squeezing me too tight.”

  Janet felt heat spread across her cheeks as she loosened her hold on her daughter. Ellie’s interaction with Wilson made her uneasy to the point of nausea, and she didn’t know why.

  “No thanks, Ellie,” Wilson said. He lowered his head and pressed a finger over stray breadcrumbs on the table. After making a production of transferring the crumbs to his plate, he added, “I’m okay.”

  Janet felt her chest tighten. The man looked so lonely, almost despondent. Maybe he really was ill.

  “Time for bed, doodlebug,” Michael said. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, and Janet caught the underlying message that said he wanted to speak to his father alone.

  Unsure of how to make a gracious exit, Janet said to Wilson, “There’s more chicken in the fridge if you’re still hungry.”

  “Thanks,” Wilson said. “But I’ve had plenty.” He blew a kiss to Ellie. “Sweet dreams, cutie.”

  Ellie yawned. “Night, Daddy. Night, Mister.”

  Janet gave Wilson a quick nod before leaving the kitchen. Her nausea was in full bloom now and the bathroom much too far away.

  Once Janet and Ellie had left the room, Michael walked over to the sink and filled a glass with water. The dull thud in his chest made it difficult for him to swallow.

  “Kinda sad,” Wilson said. “She doesn’t even remember I’m her grandfather.”

  Michael forced down another gulp of water, then placed the glass in the sink. “She was barely two when you left. What do you expect?”

  Wilson fidgeted with the edge of his plate. After a long moment, he said, “Weird people that came in today, huh? You know, with the powder and everything? Still don’t know what the deal was with my choking, though. That Stevenson guy didn’t even touch my tie, but it felt like he’d tightened it somehow. Really weird. And you should have seen the guy they sent over after you left the funeral home. I thought that apprentice of yours was going t
o have a—”

  “Is that why you came over here? To talk about the Stevensons?” Michael shoved his hands into his pockets and suddenly thought about the twenty-eight thousand dollars in cash he’d hidden in his desk drawer, just below the box of Godiva chocolates and small diamond ring he’d bought for Janet this afternoon. He hoped his father hadn’t found a way to jimmy the lock.

  A clink of fingernails against Corningware. “No, not just them.”

  “Then what?”

  Wilson crossed his arms and rested them on the table. “The least you can do is come over here and sit.”

  Reluctantly, Michael pulled his hands from his pockets, walked to the far end of the table, and sat.

  Eyeing the empty tumbler, Wilson said, “Look, I know I’m not gonna win any awards for parent of the year, but you could show a little more respect. I am your father you know.”

  “Your point?”

  “I had reasons to leave, Michael. I had stuff to take care of.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  Wilson raised a shaky hand to his chin and scratched. “If things were that bad, you should’ve just let the bank have the place.”

  Michael gaped at him. “Is that all you have to say after I busted my ass to—”

  “I never asked you to bust your ass. You could’ve left. Could have closed the place down and gone to work for another funeral home. Pellerin’s always looking for good people.”

  The reference to, “good people,” paralyzed Michael for a second. Had his father just admitted he was a good funeral director? Probably a slip of the tongue. Michael couldn’t remember the last time his father had associated him with anything good. Whether it was learning to ride a two-wheeled bike on his own or being one of the top three students in mortuary school, Wilson always had something negative to say. Some verbal twist of the knife to assure his son he’d never measure up to Wilson Savoy’s standards.

  Deciding that some things were best left alone, Michael got to his feet and paced between the table and kitchen counter. “I’m not like you,” he said. “The funeral home was never a money tree to me. I give a damn about what I do.”

  “Hey, I cared.”

  “Yeah, about yourself. It was always about you. You always had to be right, even with Grandpa Joseph.”

  “Leave my father out of this,” Wilson warned.

  Michael felt a cork pop off emotions he’d kept bottled up for too long. He whirled about. “Why? The truth hurt?”

  “You don’t have a clue about what the truth was or is,” Wilson said. “Your grandfather was too old to run the business anymore. He made mistakes, big ones. I had to stay on top of everything just to keep bread on our table!”

  “It was his funeral home!” Michael said. “And you badgered that old man until the day he died. And what the hell do you mean, bread on the table? As soon as the place made a profit, you took it. If there was any goddamn bread, Mom, God rest her, was the one who made sure it got there, you . . . you son of a—” Michael clamped his lips shut, all the more angry for allowing himself to lose his cool.

  For a second, Wilson’s face hitched with pain, then he looked away. “If it was so bad all those years, Michael, why in the hell did you stick around?”

  It was Michael’s turn to look away, leaving the question to hang in the air along with the sound of his rapid breathing. Why had he stayed? For his grandfather? For Janet and Ellie? Or was it because of some asinine, innate hope that maybe one day things would change between him and his father? It was a question he’d asked himself for years.

  A loud exhale gathered Michael’s attention.

  “Guess it doesn’t matter now,” Wilson said with a wave of his hand. “Too much water under that bridge anyway.”

  “Flooded.”

  “Look, you think you can quit pissing in my shoes for a little while so we can talk business?” Wilson pointed to a chair.

  Michael didn’t move.

  “Ten minutes,” Wilson said. “That’s all it’ll take.”

  Wary, Michael returned to his chair.

  Wilson began to knead his knotted fingers. “I want to sell the funeral home,” he blurted.

  Michael felt his jaw drop. “To who?”

  “Who’d you think? You of course.”

  Words refused to form on Michael’s tongue.

  “See . . . I’m in a bind,” Wilson said. He scrunched his body closer to the table. “I need some heavy cash quick.” He held up a trembling hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not like that. No gambling. I swear. You know that business venture I mentioned to you? The reason I had to leave in the first place? Well, it kinda went sour—bad sour actually, and, well . . . the investors want their money back.”

  Michael scraped his teeth over his bottom lip, which seemed to jumpstart his ability to speak. “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much do you want?”

  Wilson’s head bobbed earnestly, his face an over-planted field of wrinkles and liver spots. “I figure twice the receipts is fair. A million and a quarter.”

  Familiar with his father’s definition of fair, Michael stalled. He’d done the books for the funeral home long enough to know the price was above fair market value. To get out from under his father’s control now, however, would be worth twice what he was asking. But fair or not, Michael had to deal with reality. He didn’t have the money. After bouts with attorneys, a long struggle with debt reorganization, IRS liens, and all but groveling to the bank, he’d managed to untangle the mess his father had left behind and survive the last three years. But barely.

  Michael slumped in his seat. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Wilson tsked. “Hell, I know that, but the bank does. And your personal credit’s good, right? What would it hurt to ask?”

  Michael had to admit his personal credit history was in fair shape. And although the company profits were low, they were at least in the black again. Maybe the bank would view his ability to turn the company around as a positive sign when they considered all the risk factors. Maybe it would be enough for them to at least consider a loan. Then again, maybe all he was doing was slow dancing with wishful thinking. But Wilson was right about one thing. What would it hurt to ask? “All right,” Michael said. “I’ll go on Monday and talk to the loan officer.”

  “Why Monday? Why not Friday? That’s tomorrow. You could do it tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got the Stevenson service tomorrow, and as soon as that’s taken care of, I’m going up to the cabin with my family. I won’t be back until Monday.”

  Wilson wrung his hands and looked about nervously. Suddenly, his eyes brightened. “So you take a few minutes in the morning, slip out, go to the bank. I’ll cover for you while you’re gone.”

  “I’m not doing it tomorrow,” Michael said firmly. “I have too much to do. And if we’re going to do this sale, I want it done right. No screw-ups. Going tomorrow won’t make that big a difference anyway. It’s not like the bank’s going to give me a check in an hour. Loans take time.”

  “Yeah, but at least you’d get the ball rolling quicker.”

  “I said no.”

  Wilson turned sideways in his chair, picked up the tumbler from the table, and brought it to his lips. He tongue flicked across the dry rim. With a grunt of frustration, he returned it to the table and faced Michael again. “I thought you’d be more excited about this.”

  “I’m a realist. When and if it happens, great.”

  Wilson tapped an anxious foot on the floor.

  “Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?” Michael asked. “You didn’t actually think you’d be walking around with a million in cash tomorrow, did you?”

  “Of course not. Not at all.” Wilson stood and pressed a hand to the small of his back. He walked around in a tight circle for a moment, then said, “Tell you what, son, I’ll sweeten the pot. You give me the cash you got from the Stevensons earlier, and I’ll lower the sale price to a millio
n even. That should make things even easier for you at the bank.”

  The kitchen suddenly felt the size of a breadbox, and Michael got to his feet. “Forget it,” he said, and headed for the living room and the front door. “Your ten minutes are up.”

  “Wait!” Wilson caught up with Michel and followed alongside him in a lopsided gait. “I’m just trying to help you, lowering the asking price and all.”

  “The sale’s a ruse,” Michael said, not looking back. “All you’re after is that cash. I should’ve known, goddammit. I should’ve seen it coming.”

  “No, no! I really want to sell the business to you,” Wilson insisted. “Really!”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I could just take it you know. I still own the funeral home. So theoretically, it’s mine anyway.”

  Michael reached the front door but before opening it, he turned to Wilson and jabbed a finger at him. “Stop playing your games! The fucking cash isn’t yours, Dad. The bank’s in possession of all receipts and even if I could give it to you, I sure as hell wouldn’t!”

  Wilson grabbed his arm. “Listen, please—son—I gotta have that cash. I promise—I’ll go through with the sale. You have my word.”

  “Which means about as much as dog turds in the rain. Runny—and floats off in any damn direction. The answer’s no. It belongs to the bank.” Michael shook his arm free and opened the door.

  “Y-you don’t understand,” Wilson said in a broken whisper. “If I don’t give the investors some kind of good faith offering, they’ll . . . they’ll do something terrible to me.” He let out a little sob. “Really terrible.”

  Michael clutched the edge of the door until his hand hurt. Something inside of him seemed to be ripping in two. One half wanted to shove his father out the door and scream, “That’s your problem, you dumb fuck!” The other half hung numb.

  Wilson’s body appeared to sag even more under Michael’s gaze, his face draining of what little color it possessed. Tears pooled in his eyes. “They’ll kill me, Michael. I swear to God, they’ll kill me.”