After Visiting Friends

by Michael Hainey

  “You think so?”

  “You were family. And you would’ve done it in the right way. Hell, maybe you could’ve answered questions for her. You’re not the only one who needed to close some circles.”

  The door opens.

  “Spaghetti?”

  We walk to my rental car. The trees are starting to turn colors and the effect on the hills is peaceful. I tell Natty he has a nice piece of land.

  “Ah, it’s nothing but cave country. I got people always showing up on my property, looking for holes. They ask me how to find a way in, if I know any secret entrances. I just look at them and think, The way people get obsessed with holes around here? Crazy, if you ask me.”

  # # #

  His mother is newly dead and that makes him think of it.

  “I want you to see where I grew up,” he says to Bobbie one night at Andy’s.

  “How?” she asks.

  “Drive. Three days, round-trip. A day there, a day in town, a day back. I did it all the time in college.”

  “No, I mean, how are you going to explain me.”

  “I won’t. There’s a motel on the edge of town.”

  It’s morning when they cross the Mississippi. His LeSabre gleams. She looks out her window, can see shoots on trees. Bright green. She rolls the window all the way down, lets her hand loll up and down.

  They play games to pass the time.

  “Who’s the most famous person to come out of Nebraska?” she asks.

  “Besides me? Johnny Carson. Fred Astaire. Maybe Brando. Willa Cather.”

  She laughs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Ohio has more. Cradle of presidents. Eight presidents were born in Ohio.”

  “Name ’em.”

  “James Garfield, Ulysses Grant, Warren Harding, the Harrisons—that’s Benjamin and William Henry—Rutherford B. Hayes, McKinley, Taft.”

  “The only good one among ’em all is Grant. And he’s buried in New York. Couldn’t bear to go back, clearly.”

  “And now we have astronauts, too. John Glenn? Cambridge, Ohio. Neil Armstrong? Wapakoneta. Tell me who McCook has.”

  “Perry Smith. The guy from In Cold Blood? He came through McCook. Just after he broke out of some small jail in Kansas. Before he found Hickock. A famous killer. That’s what we have.”

  “It’s not like he was born there.”

  “What does Tiffin have?”

  She laughs. “Flush toilets?”

  “I’ll give you that.”

  #

  Bobbie, barefoot, opens her baggage on the foldout stand, the TV soundless and snowy on the dresser. The only light in the room. He is in the bathroom, leaning over the pink sink, pushing cold water onto his face. He keeps the light off. There is a small window over the sink, and when he towels his face he can see the cornfield just as he remembered it. It comes all the way from the horizon and runs right up to the back edge of the motel, just beneath the window. Black and empty, the field waits. Here and there he can see the remains of last year’s crop. Stalks shorn. Plowed under. Shards jut from the earth like broken bones, blackened by winter’s brutality.

  He touches her as he passes, rubs his hand over the back of his neck, like a man trying to wipe something off. He opens the door. He breathes in the sweet spring air. It takes him back. Full of promise. Rich. Latent.

  Is that the word? he wonders.

  “Here.”

  She presses a bottle into his hand. Schlitz.

  “It’s 2 a.m.,” she says. “In Chicago, you’d just be getting off.”

  She knocks his bottle.

  #

  The next morning. He finds her by the empty pool, sitting on a lounge chair, smoking a cigarette, and hugging her knees.

  “How long have you been here?” He looks into the pit. Some tumbleweeds trapped in the deep end.

  “Maybe an hour? I didn’t want to wake you.”

  The sky is pink on one side, dark blue on the other.

  “Somebody might see us out here.”

  #

  She had fallen asleep. The sound of him keying the door jolts her.

  “What time is it?” she asks.

  “Six. Hungry?”

  They drive east toward Red Willow, to a diner he knows on 34. Figures less chance of being made there, next town over. She sits close to him in the Buick. Her arm around his shoulder. To her right she sees railroad tracks running in line with a ditch.

  “Those go to Chicago?”

  He nods.

  #

  That night, he drives her through town.

  The streets are empty and only a few lights burn in curtained front rooms.

  He stops the car before a house. Keeps it idling.

  “That’s it.”

  “Just like you described it. I can see you there on the porch with Lolly. Rubbing her on the head, combing her black coat.”

  He checks his rearview. Nothing. She flicks her cigarette. Sparks, orange, on the pavement. Like a welder’s castoffs.

  “I still have to show you where I went to school.”

  #

  They hit Iowa, western edge, by noon. Chicago seems forever away to him.

  “I’m hungry,” she says.

  They find a greasy spoon off I-80 in a jerkwater town he used to stop in when driving back and forth to Northwestern. They buy sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, two bottles of Coke. Cigarettes. In the parking lot he leans against the car, both palms on the hot, ticking hood, head hung down.

  “Do you want me to drive?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Why don’t we get a room? Somewhere you can take a nap for an hour.”

  “Because I don’t want to die in some strange motel room in the middle of Iowa.”

  # # #

  San Francisco. I don’t know why I am here. Other than to try to understand who she was. I want to see, too, the place where it ended for her. I need to witness it. Another spot to be marked. Shrined. I feel a bit like Scottie Ferguson in Vertigo. Looking for a ghost of a woman.

  1207 Chestnut Street

  Apartment #12

  It was the only place she lived here, three-story taupe concrete, on the corner of Polk.

  A woman approaches, asks if I’m from the tax collector’s office. She says, “I’ve been watching you from inside.”

  She tries to look at my notebook, see what I’ve been writing. I close my pages.

  “For real,” she says. “What are you doing?”

  “My father was involved with a woman who used to live here. Bobbie Hess?”

  “That woman didn’t have the easiest life. She died up there, you know.”

  She nods toward the building.

  “I was here when the fire department broke through the window to get her body out. Third floor.”

  I look up, imagine I am in Bobbie’s place. If she leaned out her window, she would be able to see the bay, maybe hear the moan of foghorns, calling out, over and over. See a sailboat through the mist.

  “Bobbie always wore an old red trench coat,” the woman says. “I’d run into her most mornings, and her cheeks were the color of that coat. Sometimes I could smell alcohol. She’d be carrying the empty to the trash. Did you see that photo they ran with her obituary? Very young.”

  “Newspapers do that,” I say.

  “Do what?”

  “Take care of their own.”

  #

  They didn’t find her body for a few days. It was a Monday.

  The Thursday before, she’d left work early. “Not feeling well,” she told the desk.

  Friday she was still sick. But they were used to her missing a day here or there. Everyone would leave it at that.

  Monday, someone from the desk thought to call.

  No answer.

  #

  On my way out of town, I stop at the medical examiner’s office and pull a copy of Bobbie’s file. Case #2003–1219. In the Investigator’s Report, James Fiorica and Tim Hellman tell the tale: />
  The subject, a 58-year-old female, resided alone at 1207 Chestnut Street #12. She was found deceased within her secured apartment during a well-being check.

  According to information received from Pat Luchak and Alan Saracevic, co-workers; and San Francisco Police Officer Boyle, submitting Incident Report #031–294–418, the subject was employed by the San Francisco Chronicle. On 10/30/03, she left work early complaining of flu-like symptoms. She was last spoken to by a co-worker on 10/31/03 at approximately 1730 hours, at which time she reportedly stated that she was still feeling ill. On 11/3/03 at approximately 1700 hours, several co-workers became concerned, as the subject had not shown up for work and had missed a pre-arranged meeting. Several co-workers responded to the residence to check on the subject’s well-being. After receiving no answer to knocks on the subject’s secured apartment door, the co-workers contacted San Francisco Police for assistance. Officer Boyle arrived at approximately 1800 hours, and summoned the San Francisco Fire Department for additional assistance. Fire Fighters gained entry through an unlocked third story window. Once inside, the subject was found obviously deceased. Rescue Captain Storey responded and confirmed death at 1902 hours.

  Investigation at the scene revealed the subject lying in a semi-prone position, recumbent on her left side, on the bathroom floor. She was unclothed. Evidence of alcohol and tobacco use was noted. There were no signs of illicit drug abuse. No medication containers were found.

  External examination revealed no obvious signs of trauma. Rigor mortis was present and lividity was consistent with her position.

  A medical record card for Kaiser Permanente Medical Center was found. That facility was contacted and stated that the subject’s chart had been retired for several years.

  Dr. Boyd G. Stephens performs an autopsy and concludes:

  Cause of Death: Subacute Lobar Pneumonia.

  # # #

  All these years, I’ve been desperate to know my father’s last hours, and now I’m thinking about hers, too. At least she was there for him. But who was there for her?

  No one. No one to telephone her brother. No one to square her reputation with the police. No one to protect her.

  Part of me just can’t make sense of it. Fifty-eight years old, and she goes home from work with a touch of the flu. Couple of days later, she’s dead. Maybe she just gave up?

  I wish I’d found Bobbie earlier. I wish I could have helped her find what she was looking for. Maybe that’s impossible. But I can’t help thinking she died of a broken heart. I’m not saying I could have fixed it. But maybe she needed some kind of forgiveness, healing. Maybe Natty Bumppo was right—she and I are family.

  Waiting made me miss the chance to ask her questions. To get what I needed from her. Maybe I could have given something to her, and not just taken.

  I keep thinking about something Paul Berning said: “My sense is that deep inside, she was heartbroken.”

  I cannot stop thinking of what might have been. If I had gotten there earlier, might there have been the chance for understanding? And in understanding, healing?

  10

  REUNION

  I make plans to see Bobbie’s brother, but I wait until my grandmother gets settled again. Just about every day, my mother is calling with updates. They’re kind of micro-updates that don’t tell me anything big. But I know she has to talk to me about things because it’s the only way she doesn’t feel lost in it all, overwhelmed. I don’t blame her.

  One morning a few weeks after my grandmother’s last trip to the hospital, my mother tells me that my grandmother’s not eating. “She only nibbles at things. Maybe you can come in and cheer her up.”

  #

  Central Baptist has moved her to a smaller room in the Special Care Unit. Beneath the resident’s nameplate outside each room on this hallway is a photograph from a long-vanished Chicago. “It’s easier for the residents this way,” a nurse tells me. “Numbers and names? Those are just things they forget. But people can always recall a happy image from long ago.” Beneath my grandmother’s name is a sepia photo of the first Ferris wheel, frozen in time. 1893.

  She’s in bed, asleep. I take her hand. Her fingers wrap around my fingers. But she doesn’t wake up. Even though she is asleep, even though she has lost weight, even though she is almost now, as my mother says, “nothing but skin and bones,” her grip is strong as ever.

  We sit like this for a long time.

  Her grip.

  When she opens her eyes, they are wet and cloudy.

  “I wish my momma had lived,” she says. “To see how I turned out.”

  She stares at me and after a moment asks, “Do you still love me?”

  “Always, Gramma. Forever.”

  She closes her eyes.

  I am not sure she even knows who I am. Does it matter? In the end, don’t we all just want to hear someone tell us we are loved, always and forever?

  I watch her frail chest rise and fall.

  When I was a boy, six or seven years old, at family gatherings or holidays, my mother would always tell me I could not have any of the pies my grandmother had baked until my plate was clean. I’d be made to sit there, long after everyone else had left the table. But my grandmother would sit with me. And when my mother was in the kitchen, clearing plates, my grandmother would sneak bites off my plate.

  Sometimes my mother would accuse her.

  “Knock it off, Mom. He’s got to eat his own food.”

  My grandmother would look at her. “What? I ain’t doing nothing. We’re just visiting.”

  Now, all I want is for her to eat. To take my food.

  A nurse enters and smiles. She feels for my grandmother’s pulse, stares at her wristwatch. When she finishes, she reaches in the drawer and unwraps what looks like a lollipop a doctor would give to soothe a fearful child. It is a small, moist pink sponge on a plastic stick. The nurse traces the thin shape of my grandmother’s withered lips, then dabs her little tongue.

  The nurse leaves.

  I kiss my grandmother’s soft cheeks, pull the afghan tight to her chin. Tuck her in.

  # # #

  I make plans to travel to Tiffin the following Saturday. Bobbie’s sister-in-law Teresa tells me that she has a wedding to attend that evening, but she’s free for lunch. I buy a plane ticket to Cleveland, map my route. I figure it’s a two-hour drive from the airport.

  #

  My mother calls. I’m on the Ohio Turnpike. It’s Saturday, 8 a.m.

  “They had a hard time finding Gramma’s blood pressure. She’s asleep. Or unconscious. I don’t know which. The hospice lady said she’s not in pain. But.” She pauses. “I figure you’d want to come.”

  There’s clatter from the tollbooth and I can’t hear well. After the gate lifts, I pull along the ditch.

  “What’s that noise?” she asks.

  “Change,” I say.

  “Where are you?”

  “Ohio. Some reporting for work. A story.”

  “What do you think?” she says.

  I look at my watch.

  “Let me start driving,” I say. “I can be there in four or five hours.”

  “I thought you could fly.”

  “By the time I get to the airport and return the car, it’ll be three hours. And who knows if I can get a flight. I’ll call when I get close.”

  #

  I’m just outside South Bend.

  “Mike?”

  “Yes?”

  “She just died. I was hoping she was waiting for you.”

  #

  Ninety minutes later. I find my mother at a playground near my brother’s house. She’s taken the kids out to play. I see her in the distance, across a wide field. She’s sitting on a merry-go-round. My youngest niece, Beatrix, the four-year-old, pushes the merry-go-round, and my mother, a white sweater hanging from her shoulders, sits alone, watching the ground move beneath her. Every so often her feet tap the ground. She’s helping my niece keep the wheel turning. Each time she revolves to
ward me I wave, but she does not see me. It does not feel right to shout to her. It’s not until I’m on the edge of the playground that my mother sees me. She drags her heel, stops the merry-go-round. A shaky line in the dirt.

  “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “I’m sorry for you, Mom.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She stands up and I hug her. She hugs me back. Her body stiff.

  #

  The undertaker asks if we want an open casket or closed.

  My mother looks to my brother and me.

  “It’s your decision,” my brother says to her.

  “Gramma always cared so much about her appearance,” my mother says. “She didn’t look like herself at the end. She had lost so much weight.”

  From behind his desk, the undertaker smiles that kind of smile that’s supposed to say, “But of course, we . . . understand.”

  He says, “If you bring in a photo, we can match her. We have ways of”—and here he touches his cheek with the backs of his fingers, almost like he is caressing himself, appreciating his own softness—“plumping. Preserving. We can . . . restore her.”

  “No,” my mother says. “Closed.”

  #

  My mother and I clean out my grandmother’s room. Outside her door, still frozen in time, the Ferris wheel.

  My mother opens her closet.

  “What do you think of this?” she says.

  She points at the blouse and pants that my grandmother wore to her ninety-fifth-birthday party.

  I nod.

  “We’ll drop it at the funeral home.”

  On her nightstand is a handful of those pink sponge-swabs, still wrapped in plastic.

  My mother is in a corner, holding my grandmother’s walker and her cane, sort of testing them out. Leaning on them.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “I was thinking we should take these, in case we ever need them.”

  “Mom, if you ever need one, I’ll buy one for you. We’re not reusing her walker.”

  My mother lets out a small laugh and shakes her head. “What was I thinking?”

  #

  I don’t give her closed casket a second thought until the wake.

  I know she’s dead. But part of me believes that she’s not. Not if I cannot see the body.

  Another box, closed.

  People are arriving. My brother and his wife come first, with the kids, Glenn and Eleanor and Beatrix. Twelve, eight, and four years old. My nephew has homework to do and the only place we can find for him to spread out is a small table at the back of the parlor. He sits there like an apprentice scrivener, and every so often someone asks him what he’s doing. “Language and math,” he tells them. “We’re learning about infinitives. I also have a lot of problems of division to solve. I’ve been having trouble remembering to carry the remainder.”