The Corpse Will Keep

by Pat Capponi

  “Damn. Well, another night on the floor for me.” I hand Ed his phone. He takes it and shakes his head at me.

  “You’re going back, no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice.”

  “Of course you do.”

  I’m shaking my head vehemently. “Ed, try to understand. It’s not only that I promised Bernie Preston I would find out what happened to his mother, it’s that someone else has been hurt, killed, and maybe I could have stopped it. Or maybe I can keep someone else from getting hurt. The answer to what spooked Mrs. Preston, and why Rick was killed, is right there in that basement. I know it. And I need to look for Michael.”

  Out of the blue, he asks, “Come home with me tonight?”

  I’m caught off balance; I’d expected more of a fight than this. “What?”

  “Come back to my place. Please.” Oh my.

  “Ed,” I reach across the table and put my hand on his. “I’d love to, but we both need sleep. Sleep. You look exhausted, and I feel the same way. I’m desperate for my own bed, my own room.” I can tell that he hasn’t given up on convincing me not to go back to the church. Not by a long shot. Something evil in me asks, “Am I the only person you’ve asked to come home with you?”

  “What?” He looks confused.

  “Marilyn. Your new, improved Price.”

  He laughs, surprised and seemingly delighted rather than angry. “You’re jealous! I don’t believe it. Dana, you’ve nothing to worry about. Marilyn is happily married, with three children.”

  It’s too late for denials from me. He needn’t be quite so pleased about it, though. I am happy to hear that she’s “taken,” but I do have to bite back the question ready to spill out of my mouth: And if she weren’t? Instead, I let Ed smile and laugh and escort me back to my place, keeping the “if” to myself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Can’t move through all this crap. Summer’s bad enough, all that heat, sweat pouring outta me, soaking my sheets, my bloody pillow. Then it turns around and makes you a goddamn Popsicle. Freeze or melt, some choice.” Gerry tries to kick at the snow in his path and almost falls over; I grab his arm just in time to steady him. It’s been snowing steadily since late last night, and the walking’s hard.

  “I told you you didn’t have to come, Gerry. Miss Semple and I will be fine. You should catch up on all that sleep you missed, dreaming about getting poked with that pitchfork and all…”

  “Ha.” His crisis really has passed, if he’s able to take some teasing about it. “You don’t know those places like I do. I didn’t want to say too much, ’cause we wanted T.J. to go, but I been in some of them, and they’re no joke. People are packed in like sardines, and nobody’s happy. And there’s drugs and booze and badasses. People go off just like that.” He pulls one hand out of his pocket and tries to snap his fingers but they’re too cold to work. “Not everyone’s nice as me, you know.”

  “Well, we do appreciate your coming along with us, Gerry. I know how hard it is for you to leave home.” Miss Semple and he together make quite a picture. Gerry’s in a voluminous army-green jacket—voluminous on anyone else, but on him it barely zips up. He’s got a pair of old galoshes on his feet, buckles hanging loose, and Miss Semple has wrapped him up in a very bright red scarf, with a matching set of earmuffs over hair that is sticking up here and there in random tufts. Next to him, with her tidy little figure in a simple black coat, a faux fur hat, lined rubber boots, and black gloves, Miss Semple could be an entirely different species.

  “What are you grinning about?” he fake snarls at me.

  “Nothing at all. At least the snow is still new and clean, Gerry, probably good for snowballs too.”

  “Don’t even think about it. I’ll knock ya down and sit on ya, flatten ya right out!”

  We turn at the side street that will take us right to the house, but when we get there, there’s a huge mound of snow blocking off both the path to the stairs and the driveway, courtesy of a plough that’s still making its way down the road.

  “Crap,” says Gerry, summing up the situation nicely.

  “Hi there, crap for sure, that’s funny. Looking for someone? Cold, eh? Got a smoke?” This staccato delivery is from a tall fellow who joins us on the sidewalk. He’s wearing only a T-shirt, cut-off jeans, and running shoes. He sniffs back a hanging trail of snot, getting the rest with a swipe of his bare arm.

  I decide to answer the last question first by reaching into my pocket. His face lights up at the prospect of nicotine, and he moves closer, watching intently as I peel the cello off the pack.

  “Could I have two, one for later?” I give him two, ignoring Gerry’s grumbling. He sticks one behind his ear. “Hey, weren’t you here yesterday? Brought that guy?” He’s leaning close to Miss Semple, peering at her nearsightedly.

  “Yes, that’s right. My grandson is staying here,” Miss Semple said.

  “Don’t like him much? Can’t keep him? Sure, I know how it is. My mother couldn’t keep me either. Too much trouble, she said, always trouble. He’s upstairs, want me to get him?”

  “Yes, but how do we get through this?” Miss Semple eyes the piled-up snow.

  “Well, I came out the back way. It wasn’t so bad.”

  “Great,” I say. “Can you take us in that way?”

  “Nope. Door slammed shut on me. I banged and banged, but no one answered me. Oh well, here we go.” He plunges right in, the snow as high as his knees.

  Gerry turns to Miss Semple. “You can’t do this, you don’t have good boots.” It’s true, she doesn’t. They’re nice boots, ankle high, with a small heel, but useless in this. “You should go back home.”

  “Don’t be silly, I can stand a little cold.” The words are brave, but come out a bit halting.

  “Okay, don’t move,” Gerry says, and in one impressive move lifts her off her feet before she can object. “Hang on, here we go. Dana, I’ll be back for you in a minute.”

  Poor Miss Semple is speechless, and I’m laughing, though I have no intention of waiting to be picked up. I step into Gerry’s giant footprints while hanging on to the back of his jacket. Miss Semple is also starting to laugh, a lovely sound, and Gerry grunts: “Stop that, I don’t want to drop ya!” In this unorthodox way, we make it to the door, which our new friend—“call me Charlie”—is holding open. He ushers us inside and asks us to wait while he gets our man for us.

  It’s hard to actually clatter up a few flights when you’re in running shoes, but he manages it while we crowd into the alcove. From the outside, if one didn’t know any better, it would be easy to imagine large sunlit rooms, spacious corridors and wide staircases: the house covers at least half a block, and its exterior is in good shape. Instead, we’re peering into a dark corridor, taking in the smell of urine, vomit, bad hygiene, and mould.

  Miss Semple, recovered from her ferrying, says, “It only gets worse; brace yourselves.”

  Charlie comes tripping back down, a little breathless, misses a few steps but doesn’t tumble. “Ya need to come up, he’s not feeling too great. C’mon, I’ll show ya where.”

  Uh-oh, this can’t be good. I want to question our guide, but we’ll know soon enough. Halfway up the second flight he whirls around on me, pointing to a mess of something revolting and unidentifiable on the stairs. I flinch, almost fall backwards, but Gerry has one firm hand in the middle of my back.

  “Don’t step in that! Don’t know what it is, but ya don’t want it on your shoes, ’cause it stinks.”

  “It was there yesterday too,” murmurs Miss Semple.

  “How much further?” This from Gerry, who’s not fond of stairs.

  “Third floor. Must be real good food where you live. Make you so fat ‘n’ all.”

  “Just go,” grunts Gerry.

  Charlie ushers us into a large room crammed with beds and little else. No closet that I can see. One dresser for one, two, three, four, five men. Not even a drawer each. Crammed unde
r mattresses, wedged between beds—each one occupied—the ubiquitous green garbage bags that pass for luggage. Our guide points to a bed by the wall.

  “Here’s your friend. He’s not talking much.”

  He really isn’t. He’s lying there on his back, so still and stiff and pale, I think he’s had a heart attack and died. But Gerry figures it out right away.

  “You crazy bastard! You took the pills, didn’t ya?” We both have to lean in close to hear his reply, made through tightly clenched teeth.

  “Half…help me.”

  Gerry and I look at each other, he’s shaking his head in disgust. “I told him, Dana, didn’t I tell him? Ya should of listened.” This last is directed with some volume into T.J.’s ear. Then to our guide, “Hey you, five bucks for two Cogentin, somebody in this place must have some.”

  “What about me, what do I get?”

  “Same for you.” Our friend leaves happily as Gerry blasts T.J.’s ear again. “You’re paying us back! We don’t have that kind of money to throw around.”

  “Gerry, you’re sure the Cogentin will help him? He looks like he’s got lockjaw or something.”

  “Yeah, it works pretty quick. It’s just side effects, is all.”

  When our friend comes back, barely two minutes after he left, Janet’s with him, her concern clear on her face.

  “Dana! You came! I’d thought you’d forgotten us. But what’s going on? Why is Charlie looking for Cogentin?”

  One look at T.J., laid out on the bed rigid as a board, answers her question.

  “Oh my God, the poor guy! I saw him last night, just for a few minutes, we passed in the hallway. He looked so nervous. Will he be all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he’ll be fine, keep your shirt on.” Gerry shoves the little white pills between T.J.’s teeth and orders him to swallow. It’s painful, watching him try, that prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down convulsively, but he finally manages it. I suggest we’re drawing too much attention, all of us around his bed. Miss Semple and Janet volunteer to stay with him.

  Gerry and I leave T.J.’s crowded bedside to travel down to the common room with our guide, who must be hoping for another cigarette or cash. The room’s in the basement, or at least the section of the basement not given over to furnaces, heaters, and dark corners where boxed items seem to be stacked willy-nilly. It’s a low-ceilinged, cold and carpetless area, with a couple of card tables, one couch that has more cigarette burns than fabric, and, on a three-legged stool, a precariously balanced portable television. It’s on, a blur of snow combined with a faint background hiss, but that doesn’t deter one man, who shushes us as we come in. He seems riveted to the set, so much so that he doesn’t otherwise acknowledge us.

  We take up a couple of old kitchen chairs around a different table and find ourselves also drawn to the screen.

  “Heard about this show. It’s number one at the funny farm.”

  “Ssssh!”

  “Aw, keep your pants on, will ya?”

  The watcher, all height and pimples and indignation, gets up quickly, knocking back his chair as he does, glares at us, and shuffles off to the stairs. I’m fascinated by his footwear, two cardboard “soles” held on by masking tape wound round and round his feet. “Needs must,” as Jeremy would say.

  I turn off the set, relieved to silence the static, when something sparks a stampede above our heads. Gerry and I look up at the ceiling, tracing with our eyes and ears the clamour as it moves from the hallway to the landing to the steps. Charlie moves closer to the cement wall.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have turned it off?”

  We watch as a flurry of elbows and knees and body checks tumbles down toward us. Gerry’s up and standing in front of me, ready to shield me from whatever.

  “Six for twenty!”

  “Six for nineteen!”

  “Eighteen! Get out of my way, I was here first.”

  “Like hell you were, seventeen!”

  Gerry twigs before I do, holding up one meaty palm to silence them. “Hey! We’re not buying, we only needed a couple.”

  This has the effect of a bucketful of cold water. For one short minute.

  “Told you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You’re such a liar. So you’re sure then? Nothing else?”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  They push and jostle each other up the stairs, and mercifully out of our hearing range. Gerry sighs, and goes over to the couch. “I’ve gotta take a nap. Wake me when he gets here, will ya?”

  I’m oddly tired myself, which triggers a blurry memory of a scene in The Wizard of Oz, that field of flowers that knocked everyone out. Maybe room after room of drugged sleepers has the same soporific effect on anyone looking in. I decide I need to move around to ward off this fog, and, against my better instincts, I start to explore the stacked-up boxes in the corner. I soon wish I hadn’t, as bile reaches up from my stomach to my mouth. Mice I can tolerate, but the large, desiccated rat corpse lying just at the base of one pile of boxes is more than I can handle.

  Before that rat died, he’d managed to chew through a box of pasta, elbow macaroni, to be exact, and some of it had fallen through the jagged rip and collected around his body, like some manic effort to festoon it with decorations. Other boxes too, on the floor, have been breached, a veritable smorgasbord of oatmeal, rice, and flour scattered around plastic dishes of rodent poison pellets. I tell myself, as I back away from the scene, to make sure T.J. films this as well.

  “Saw Ben, did ya? Should have warned you.” It’s Charlie, he’s clearly wide awake.

  “Ben?” I notice my voice is a bit high and squeaky.

  “Yeah, you never saw that movie, where the kid and the rat are friends? Ben.”

  “How long has he been lying there?”

  “Don’t know. Doesn’t matter, since he’s dead. I don’t worry about him no more, it’s the others that bug me. I can hear them at night, chewing through the walls, sometimes right by my head. Guess they need someplace to live themselves, it’s getting too cold out there.”

  “Aside from rats, anything else in the house? Bugs?”

  “Oh yeah, we got a zoo here sometimes, that’s for sure.” He’s not that interested in the topic. Something else is on his mind, and as we stand facing each other, he lets me know what it is.

  “Did you see yourself? I mean, when you were on television. Janet told us all about it, did you get to see yourself? What did it feel like, to be in there and outside at the same time? Was it weird? And did everyone recognize you, like when you were walking down the street, did people stare, not in a bad way, I don’t mean that, but like maybe they thought they knew you?” Though surprised and a little worried that Charlie knows, I answer honestly.

  “I tried not to see myself. Just because I thought it would be weird. But other people told me I looked good and so did my friends. Yes, people do recognize you, if you’re on enough. It’s funny how many people must watch television, especially the news.”

  “We don’t watch much. There’s always fights in the basement, and it’s so cold. Do you think T.J. will tell us when we’ll be on?”

  I stare at him, shocked to hear him call T.J. by his name.

  More footsteps, quieter this time, as Janet and a few more tenants make their wary way down. I nudge Gerry and he reluctantly sits up, making room on the couch. Janet must be a mind reader, since just after introducing her companions she comes clean with me. “I told a few people here about T.J.’s plan. I wanted to show them we don’t have to take it. And with you part of it, no one would dare tell us we’re lying, or crazy, or looking for attention. No one would lock us up!”

  “Don’t be too sure about Dana. There are days…”

  I shoot Gerry a look that’s enough to silence him, then turn to the tenants.

  Janet continues, “Some people didn’t want to do it, thought it was too risky, but I convinced them.” I take a look at the lot
of them and say, “I bet this must be pretty scary for you.”

  It’s Charlie who answers for all of them. “Hoo boy, you could say so, but sometimes, like Janet said, you gotta stand up.”

  A lot of head nodding, then one of the two women, still in her housecoat and slippers, with her hair sticking up every which way, adds, “It’s just not right, what’s going on. I’m scared every night, what’s going to happen? Will they come up to my room? Will they try to rob me or worse? And there’s no one to call for help. Mrs. Avery doesn’t care. Long as she gets her cheques at the end of the month, that’s all she wants.”

  A man whom Janet calls Mark has collapsed on the couch beside Gerry. He’s about Michael’s age. Haggard, unshaven, with dark half-moons under his eyes, he rakes his trembling fingers through his dark blond, greasy hair. He starts to talk, almost moaning.

  “It’s so bad. I was clean, you know, they’d kept me in the hospital for almost a year and I’d beaten the drugs, and I was feeling better, no more voices, and I thought, well, they told me, you know, that I’d have a whole new life and I believed them, I really did. Then it was time for my discharge and everyone’s slapping me on the back and congratulating me and then they drive me over to this house where I’m to stay and the first night, the first fucking night, I can smell it right down the hall. I almost lost it right there, I couldn’t believe they’d put me right back into it. Avery’s son, he says to me, don’t be a wuss, take a toke. Finally I did, ’cause he’d take my money either way. Now look at me. I’m so screwed.”

  He’s curled right into the fetal position.

  “You can’t give up, though. Then her and Richard win. And you don’t want that.” The fellow next to him pats his shoulder. “It’s like Janet said, sometimes you gotta fight back, so you feel better about yourself. And so no one else gets hurt like us.”