The Corpse Will Keep

by Pat Capponi

  “I’m sorry, I’m a bit overwrought, this is all so confusing. I don’t know why she won’t answer my calls.”

  Jeremy murmurs, “I’m sure it’s very difficult for you, but you should know that I have every confidence in Dana’s ability to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Yes, well…you mentioned her son was to join us? We’ve never actually met, though I did see him at the home a few times. Anna didn’t seem to feel the need to introduce us.”

  “Odd,” I say, before I can stifle the word.

  He nods. “I thought so too at the time, but she is such a private person.”

  I glimpse Harp coming through the door, looking around. I wave an arm in the air. He catches sight of me and tries to negotiate his way through the tight arrangement of tables to where we sit near the back. He’s almost as impatient as Jon; for a moment it looks as though he’ll simply start throwing pieces of this annoying blockade hither and yon. He’s able to contain himself, though by the time he reaches us his face is brick red.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic. Hello again, Dana, lovely to see you.”

  Jeremy takes the initiative, rising and offering his hand.

  “I’m Jeremy, and this is Jon Walters. Jon, this is Mrs. Preston’s son, Bernie.”

  I phoned Harp earlier in the day, from Karen’s bar, and filled him in about Jon and what I’d learned so far. He had trouble believing his mother could have a romantic interest in anyone at her age, and with her temperament. I think that bothered him even more than the fact that his mother had likely been assaulted.

  He nods brusquely at Jon, and manages to clasp his hand briefly. Jeremy signals the waiter, who appears as if he’s been waiting all his life for such a sign from him, stepping up smartly with another menu. I’m not sure Jeremy, engrossed in the dynamics at the table, even recognizes he’s being flirted with.

  Harp orders a Scotch and soda, loosens his tie, and shrugs out of his jacket. He keeps stealing glances at Jon, puzzlement clear on his face. As interesting as these dynamics are, I move to get down to business.

  “Bernie, have you been by your mother’s house?”

  He nods grimly. “Three times, at least. I rang the bell but she never answers.”

  “Was her car there?”

  “She keeps the car in the garage, so I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t get past the gate! I called from my condo that night, left her a message on her service, and I got a call back within the half-hour. She was as furious with me as I knew she would be; her voice was just shaking with anger. She demanded to know why I was snooping around like a little sneak.” He shivers, then continues: “I asked her why she hadn’t answered the door, told her again that I was worried about her. She denied she’d been home, said one of the neighbours had alerted her that I was lurking outside the gate. She made me promise to respect her wishes and her privacy.”

  “I don’t think you can afford to keep that promise.” This from Jon. Harp nods miserably. The waiter brings Bernie’s drink and asks if we plan to eat. None of us are hungry, but Jeremy orders another bottle of wine.

  “Jon, if you don’t mind, now that we’re all here, if you could start at the beginning, when you first met Mrs. Preston, what you talked about, and how you came to fear she was in some kind of trouble.” I pull out a small notepad and pen, and look to him expectantly. A deep sigh shakes his frame. He closes his eyes a moment, gathering his resolve. The words come, slowly at first, then gaining speed and intensity.

  “I’d been there, at the home, for about six months before she arrived. I was happy enough, I suppose. I had my books, and company if I wanted some, which I rarely did. It suited me, at this time of my life, or so I thought. Then Anna arrived. I was there the day they brought her in, and I was smitten immediately.” He blushes, perhaps remembering Bernie’s presence at the table. I think I’m blushing too, remembering how I felt about Ed, that first meeting. I wonder what he’s doing, and who he’s with. I have to force myself back to the here and now.

  “At first she discouraged all visitors to her room, but I seized the first opportunity to breach her defences, bringing her a selection of novels. She couldn’t move about, and there’s only so much television one can tolerate, especially during the day. She was snappish at first, but I didn’t let that discourage me.” He pauses, keeping his hands together in his lap, as the waiter returns with our wine.

  “I hadn’t really talked with a woman since my wife died, except for the necessary social niceties. We were very good together, she and I, and I’ve been a bit lost without her. I never expected to find someone else. But there she was. Right down the hall. I’m not a man to put myself forward, really, but I found myself campaigning to win her over. Plotted out my moves like a general on the battlefield—when to advance, when to retreat. Gradually I wore her resistance down. I was extraordinarily happy, and I’d like to think she was too. There was something, some shadow I could detect, I wasn’t sure what it was, but I thought there was time enough ahead of us for me to learn what was troubling her.”

  “Can you tell us what you mean by ‘shadow’?” I hate to interrupt him; he’s rocking slowly, almost gently, back and forth in his chair, lost in his memories.

  “Anna wouldn’t talk about her accident. It could be she just didn’t want to relive it, but I was sure there was something else. I felt like something had scared her. I couldn’t understand why a woman like Anna, independent, strong, vibrant, hadn’t arranged to be cared for in her own home. When I questioned her about it, we had our first argument. She said that I didn’t need to be there any more than she did, and she told me to leave. I apologized right away, of course, told her she was right. Marla, my wife, used to do everything for me. When she died, I simply couldn’t keep up. Everything got so muddled and confused, I was beside myself. My doctor suggested the move, he arranged everything, and my lawyer took care of the sale of the house and most of its contents. It was the right thing for me at the time. But for Anna, I wasn’t sure. Especially once she was up and hobbling around on crutches. But she showed no inclination to leave. Then those people came.” He stops, widens his eyes as if to emphasize the horror of the recollection. “It was extraordinary, the effect they had on Anna. There was no way I was going to leave her alone with them, but she grew quite insistent, and I had to withdraw, though I stayed in the corridor, ready to burst through the door if she needed me.”

  I saw Jeremy bite down on his lower lip, hard. I also strained to avoid smiling at the vision of Jon defending Mrs. Preston’s honour.

  “I couldn’t hear a damn thing, hovering outside, but then the door opened and out they came, the both of them. The man was smiling in a way that I knew was not good. The woman had her head down, staring at the carpet. They ignored me, but I watched them until they got in the elevator. I found Anna in tears when I went to her. That was a shock, you’ve no idea the strength of that woman.” He smiled at Bernie. “I took her hand, begged her to let me help her, whatever she needed. At first she pushed me away, but I wouldn’t leave this time. All she told me, all I could get from her, was that she knew the woman, or used to, that they were neighbours once.”

  We all turn as one to Bernie, who shakes his head. “I don’t know who she means. Our neighbours are good people, I’ve known them all my life.”

  Jon sighs, and continues.

  “Anna had seen the woman at the Out of the Cold program, homeless and possibly involved with drugs or worse, and it had upset her greatly. She wouldn’t tell me anything else, who that man was or what he wanted. All she said was that she couldn’t believe he had found her. And that she was leaving. I told her I wanted to go with her, but she refused to allow it. She’d call, she said. I’m not staying here without you, that’s what I told her. And I meant it. I was absolutely beside myself. That night…” He blushes furiously, a gorgeous deep red. “That night was the first we spent together, and the last.”

  Bernie chokes on his wine, splattering the nice tablecloth with crimson,
as though a stabbing had just occurred. He steadies himself, but it clearly takes tremendous effort.

  “She took the number of my cell phone, but she has never called. I decided to leave the home myself, and I’ve been staying at the King Edward Hotel ever since, just waiting to hear from her.” Poor Jon is trembling, while Jeremy is clearly fascinated, and I’m, to use a term I’ve heard from him, gob-smacked.

  “Wow,” is all I can come out with.

  “Wow indeed,” agrees Jeremy, with some solemnity.

  Jeremy’s waving for a refill, but if I drink much more, I’ll be turned away tonight. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  “Would you describe the couple for me, as much detail as you can give, please?”

  Jon collects himself for a moment, closing his eyes as if the image of those two people is burned on the inside of his eyelids. “He had a presence, the man, he moved with a mixture of assurance and menace. About six feet tall, in his early forties, I’d say, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, with a wool sweater underneath, beige. Black boots, heavy and lethal-looking. His hair was covered by a watch cap, but I think it was brown. My impression of the woman was that she was unremarkable, mousy, frightened, also wearing jeans, but I hardly noticed her. He was the one I was watching.”

  “This is very helpful.” I’m writing as fast as I can, hoping I’ll be able to read the scribble.

  “My God, none of this makes any sense. A thug like that, threatening my mother. What could he want with her?” Bernie is clearly distressed. “Dana, we have to find the bastard.”

  “We will, Bernie, we will. I have an idea, and it involves you, Jon. It might be dangerous, and I can guarantee it will be uncomfortable as hell.”

  “It should be me, I should help,” Bernie yelps, offended. “She’s my mother!”

  “I know that, Bernie, but this is something that only Jon can do.”

  Jon’s chin comes up and out. He braces his shoulders like we were all on some military parade ground instead of lounging at an effete wine bar, and nods stiffly.

  “Just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do it.”

  By the time I’ve explained what I have in mind and we make our way outside—Bernie trailing in our wake, looking a little stunned—it’s snowing again, and not gently either. The wind has picked up and is howling through the streets like some mad, tormented animal.

  I can’t see Cassie anywhere, or Rick, but there are plenty of others, huddled miserably, silently, in front of the locked door. The snow is up to my shins, I’ve stopped being able to move my toes, my feet are solid blocks of ice. I take off one glove, bend down, and with one finger try to scoop out the snow that’s lodged between the canvas of my shoe and my sock, then stamp around in little circles, trying to get my wine-diluted blood flowing again.

  “Newspaper.” A rotund old fellow comes up to me, points at my shoes. “That’s the ticket. Keeps you warm and dry. See?” He lifts one foot, a little unsteadily, and shows me how it’s stuffed with paper, then undoes one button on his coat to show wads of dailies held under each armpit. “Got a smoke?”

  It happens I do. I pull out the pack I bought earlier, and pass him one. He’s delighted, leaning in as I light it for him. I light one for myself, taking care not to inhale.

  “First cigarette today,” he says, staring at the lit end. “I might just keel over.”

  It’s like waving a winning lottery ticket. We’re soon surrounded by men and women, some hesitant, others insistent on “borrowing a cigarette.” My new friend, “name’s Oscar,” chases them off, all except for one other fellow, whom he introduces as Tom. “Do you think you could spare one for my friend here?” I do, though grudgingly.

  The three of us huddle with our heads close together, breathing alcohol fumes into each other’s faces. I scan the new arrivals as they move past us toward the limited shelter of the building, relieved to finally see a well-bundled Miss Semple hand in hand with Jon, both carefully negotiating the beaten path to the church. I realized earlier that Jon might be able to identify the man who’d threatened Mrs. Preston, if he’s here to be seen. I knew I couldn’t babysit him during the meal, and he certainly needed watching. Miss Semple, the right age to be his partner, would be able to do that without arousing suspicion. I made it very clear to both that they were to leave right after the meal.

  “Helluva night,” mutters Tom unhappily, the first words I’ve heard him speak. “Getting too old for this. My bones hurt.”

  “Can’t feel your bones, Tom, not your bones. Skin and muscle, yeah, not bones.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can’t feel. You’re always telling me, and you’re always wrong. If I say I feel them, then I feel them, so screw off, will ya?”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get your bones in a knot.” Oscar brays laughter at this witticism, punching Tom’s shoulder, which turns out to be a mistake, because Tom takes offence and swings back, hitting Oscar in the side of the head, knocking him down. Oscar kicks out with his legs, no finesse here, and Tom tumbles onto his butt, then they’re both on their knees in the snow, pounding on each other. My drop-in instincts take over, and I’m working to separate them, bending down, trying to pull Tom out of range, when an errant punch connects with my jaw, just hard enough to hurt a lot.

  Now they’re really mad at each other. “Look what you did to the nice lady!” “What I did, what you did, you bastard!”—punctuated by flailing fists as a small group starts chanting: “Bum fight, bum fight.”

  “All right, that’s enough, you two.”

  The chanting stops immediately, and so do the punches, as a man lifts Tom by the back of his coat and orders him to move away. Oscar staggers to his feet, mutters an apology, and scuttles off to lean against the church wall. I’m standing with my head down and my hands on my knees, trying to blink away the flashes of starlight obscuring my vision.

  “Are you going to be okay?” It’s a gentle voice, deep, radiating concern. I raise my head experimentally, and it doesn’t fall off, so I say, yes, I think so. My champion, dressed in a long dark coat and wraparound Dr. Who–style scarf, murmurs “May I?” and touches my chin, looking for breaks or tears. He’s gentle and his gloves must be good ones: his fingers are warm against my skin, his breath sweet-smelling as he leans in, his face close to mine. It’s a strong face—even in this poor light—all lines and clefts and shadows. I notice too that there’s a plastic laminated card peeking out from the folds of his scarf, like some of the volunteers wear, which explains how immediately the group responded to him.

  I hear the creak of the door opening. Oddly, there’s no rush this time, people are hanging back, even in this temperature. My rescuer holds out his arm for me to take, and says, “Let’s get you inside.”

  I could be Queen of the Homeless, with her Escort Prince. No jostling crowds, no elbows or shoulders to dodge, we step through to warmth and light, and he has me seated beside him, out of my jacket and sipping hot tea, before anyone else enters. He looks even better than he did in the dark: clean-shaven, his hair long and black and held back in a ponytail, his brown eyes so concentrated on mine that it makes me a little dizzy.

  “I’m Jesse. And you’re…?”

  A moment’s panic. I should have written it on my hand. Hoping he attributes my hesitation to disorientation, I finger my chin again, gingerly, as if checking for broken bones, then it comes to me, unfortunately rushing out of my mouth like a Jeopardy! answer: “April!”

  “Hey, April. I’m going to leave you for a minute, but I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “Sure. I’m fine, really.”

  “You’re a trooper.” His brilliant smile is thawing out my blood. I’m even starting to feel my toes. I watch him as he walks away, stopping to talk to some of the younger guests, who come and take a seat at our table, as if granted permission. No one tries to take his chair; in fact, a few empty spaces are left around us. I track Jesse as he hugs one of the church ladies, who blushes and giggles, swatting him playfully
. He is a star here, no doubt, carrying an aura of natural authority and strength.

  I lose sight of him for a moment, long enough to look around at the bundled-up guests, poor sodden individual piles of misery and want, shivering stoically in the bright light. Ah, there they are, Miss Semple and Jon, holding hands as they move toward one of the tables, Jon scanning the occupants of the room from behind a beat-up pair of glasses. It alters his appearance just enough, no one would recognize him. Miss Semple fusses over him, gets him settled, makes him unwind his woollen scarf and open a few buttons of his coat. Neither of them stands out.

  Jesse comes back with a full plate he puts down before me.

  “Go ahead, eat, please. It will warm you up.”

  No one else is being served yet. I’d rather wait, but he is insistent. Chicken stew with hot biscuits—I’ve never tasted anything so good, though it’s hard to eat when he never takes his eyes off me. The rest of our table is conspicuously ignoring us, talking very quietly to one another, only occasionally sneaking envious looks at my plate.

  “Do you need anything? You should take it easy. I have to tell you, I feel it’s my fault you were hurt. I was a little late for my shift, I usually keep order in the lines outside.”

  So that explains all the attention I’m getting. Guilt is underrated, if it produces such results, and speaking of guilt, why does Ed suddenly loom large in my head? Rather than think too much about that, I look around me. The servers are doing their rounds, bustling about, plunking down laden plates before ravenous individuals. My plate is clean, not a scrap remaining.

  “I can tell you’re new to all this, April. You haven’t lost your capacity to care about others. Most of the people here are so wrapped up in their own misery, they haven’t time for anyone else’s.” That’s the same observation Cassie made; there may be some truth to it. “I’d hate to see you lose your sensitivity, your compassion. End up…”