Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  After an eon or a few minutes, he returned from the blissful afterlife to the painful present. Battered, bruised, and with ears ringing from the shock wave, he blinked, he winced, he groaned.

  He was buried beneath layers of river silt, shattered cast iron debris, and a thick sheet of corrugated steel siding.

  By some miracle it had stopped short of crushing his chest, and he wriggled free, crawled out. Standing up was not yet an option.

  The blast had blown him out of his boots. He'd seen barefoot bodies in the Iraq desert, and always thought the expression fanciful. A more logical answer was sandal thieves. Now he reassessed the idiom, and ran an inventory.

  He still wore his socks, the oil-stained jeans, and filthy sweatshirt. The latter was pierced by two thin wires that were attached to twin barbs that were attached to his chest. The rest of his body bore similar indignities.

  He could have been out for a minute or an hour or forever. He checked the time, and saw his watch was missing. The two men likewise.

  Rosetta's coffee and the Egg McMuffin struggled for freedom, and won. Loss of consciousness, confusion, ringing in the ears, vomiting. He didn't need a doctor to tell him he had a concussion.

  He heard a wrenching, ripping, tearing sound, and looked skyward as a section of the roof came down. He crabbed and scuttled to the river, and dove.

  The brown and sluggish Susquehanna was a mass of twisted girders, and rusty siding. Jagged steel claws grabbed at his clothes and his flesh.

  Lungs bursting, he surfaced fifty feet down stream, beside a boat loosely tethered to a scraggly bush. He reached up, threw an arm over the gunwale, rolled inside.

  The current tugged the skiff, and carried it away from the Iron Works. He lay on his back, stared at the cloudless sky, and slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Aboard a drunken boat, he drifted on a river he could not control. Where Alph, the sacred river, ran. Through caverns measureless to man, and down to a sunless sea. Charon ferried him across the river Styx, until he was waist deep in the Big Muddy. Lucy and her diamonds sang him a song of tangerine trees and marshmallow skies.

  The boat spun and swirled in the eddies, then drifted ashore. The bow line snagged on a fallen tree at the river's edge. Oily sand, scrub birches, treadless tires. Voices. Juvenile voices.

  “Yo, Frankie, lookit here. A boat, got a dead body in it.”

  Frankie carried the rods and tackle box, Willie the sodas and sliders. “He ain't got no shoes.” He searched for a wallet. “I bet he's a wino, fell in the river, drowned.”

  “Then how did he get in the boat? Ain't no water in it.” He studied the situation, thinking it might offer more fun that fishing. “We need to find us a cop.”

  “No way. Po-lice be all over this like flies on shit, and I ain't about to spend my day with no corpse. Push him back out, let him be somebody else's problem.”

  Mac returned from his spiritual journey, and joined the conversation. He began with a low moan.

  Willie and Frankie screamed, dropped everything, and ran.

  Mac climbed out of the boat, saw the soda and sliders, ate their lunch, vomited again.

  He scanned the horizon, got his bearings. He was a mile downstream from the Iron Works, where twisted steel rose from the river like the talons of a giant Decepticon. Mags would know which one.

  He was standing on the shoreline of Phase Two, the site of his fanciful minor league ballpark. Like that was ever going to happen.

  He lay on the muddy river bank, battered, bloody, and bruised, and considered his situation. Honey was acting crazy over the damn kiss. The explosion was premature. Mags saw Spider kissing Honey. Or was it the other way around?

  He should hike back to the job site, and confront Honey and Spider. Make sure Mags was safe. It was a dumb idea, telling her to sign the document. He'd let a fight with his wife over apple trees and pop art posters sway his judgment.

  Not to mention the ninety thousand dollar penalty. The Redevelopment Authority would raise holy hell, maybe cancel the contract. He climbed to his feet. Dizzy. Better not return to the site, looking like a drowned wino. He smelled like one, what with the mud, and the Susquehanna swim.

  He hoped the water he'd swallowed wasn't swimming with typhoid, cholera, or some other deadly disease. Or parasites like leaches; the one in Belize that swam up your dick.

  It was pointless to go off half-cocked. He needed to get to the farm, get cleaned up, and call his lawyer.

  Mac limped his way back to the pickup truck. He retrieved the keys from under the tire, his wallet and iPhone from under the seat, then drove over back roads to the farm.

  —o—

  Congressman Varnish knew all about Ways and Means, Appropriations, and Congressional Oversight. He knew nothing about jurisprudence as it was practiced among the peons. So, with a sense of self-importance, he called the coroner and demanded an immediate audience. “Ms. Poitrine is a constituent, and in need of some quick action on your part.” He wheedled with a taste of pork. “If you're up for reelection this year I can not only endorse you, but will make a small campaign contribution.”

  The coroner said, “You'd cross party lines to endorse me? That's mighty white of you, congressman. Do stop by; my time is yours.”

  They found the office of Clarence Bullfinch across the street from the police department, in a generic yellow brick building, one also housing the Luzerne County Public Defender, and the offices of Adult Probation.

  Hands were shaken, seats were taken, and Congressman Varnish said, “I assume you are familiar with the tragic events this morning at the old Iron Works. My client is president of H. Poitrine and Associates, and it was her husband who met his maker a few short hours ago.”

  The coroner, a slim black man, with grizzled hair and a physician's hands, steepled them beneath his chin as he listen to the hokum. “Yes, I believe I heard something about it. As a matter of fact, I have just returned from the morgue, where I read the entrails of one Harold Mertz. Having detected no signs of life, I issued a certificate stating same.” He folded his hands on his desk and turned to Honey. “As to meeting makers, going to just rewards, and shuffling off mortal coils, none of the more philosophical aspects of death can be discussed when someone is merely missing.”

  He reached for the newspaper in his wastebasket, showed them the headline. Today's The Day! “Like most residents of Wilkes-Barre, I have been following the project with great interest. My parents were flooded out by Agnes, in seventy-two.”

  Varnish jumped in. “Well then, you are probably aware Ms. Poitrine's company is in the midst of the Development Authority's project to improve the waterfront. But, sadly, with the loss of Mr. McClintock, work has come to a halt. Government bureaucrats have descended, fighting for turf. OSHA always wants more money, and the EPA always wants an excuse to write more rules. Bottom line, Clarence, we need a death certificate to get the workmen moving again. It's complicated; a bunch of legal stuff that wouldn't interest you.”

  “No, Congressman Varnish, what interests me is bodies. Dead ones. Whenever I stumble across one, my heart quickens. Because a stiff is a chance for me to do my job.” He turned once more to Honey. “Bring me a corpse, and I will issue a Certificate of Death.”

  “But, but.” Honey reached in her purse and waved Mac's Last Will and Testament in his face. “Mr. Brewster says I need a death certificate to settle his estate.”

  Shelly laid his hand on her arm. “This a legal matter, dear, so let me handle it. What we need, Clarence, is for you to issue an in absentia finding.”

  The coroner sighed; it was a shame gerrymandering had given the congressman a stranglehold on the district, and a wonder he was licensed to practice law. He only knew H. Poitrine from seeing her name emblazoned on a billboard at the old Iron Works, but in the flesh she possessed an air of entitlement most beautiful women and too many white men brought to his office.

  As though he could wave a wand, and bring the dead to life. Or perhaps in this i
nstance, vice versa. This pair was awfully anxious to settle the estate. “Not too worry, madam. At a later date I can issue a death certificate in absentia.”

  “Well, that's a relief!” Honey saw the glimmer of a smile cross his lips, and she frowned, suspecting a Catch-22. This was getting more complicated than her first divorce. “What exactly do you mean by a later date?”

  “It means, after a passage of time, if your husband doesn't show up somewhere, either in a hospital bed, or on the arm of a tootsie, then he will be declared legally dead.”

  “O-Kay.” She relaxed, now that Mac's millions were in sight, if down the road a bit. Her credit cards were maxed out, with only the AMEX still working, but she found it highly embarrassing to use it for gas and groceries. That was a sure sign of people living beyond their means. But she could survive for a couple of weeks. A month, if need be. “What's your definition of a passage of time?”

  The coroner turned to her lawyer and displayed a mouthful of dazzling white teeth. “Your attorney should know the answer. Seven years.”

  Honey's wail emptied offices up and down the hall.

  Shelly led his weeping client outside. He didn't feel so hot, himself. Seven years was an eternity—or three and a half House election cycles. Time to cut his losses, and retreat to Washington. But first he had to reclaim his car.

  “Shelly? I've been thinking.” They were in Honey's Lexus, heading back to the farm. Now, with dry eyes, she saw it was time to cut her losses. And come up with a plan for a very different future. In seven years she would be having hot flashes.

  “You may be a terrific congressman, and you have helped the company with stuff. Or so Mac says. I haven't paid as much attention as I should to those kind of details.” She turned to him in the tan leather seat, which she'd discovered was not leather at all, but something called NuLuxe, a fancy name for vinyl.

  First chance she got this thing was going off lease, and she'd start driving the Mercedes. With its real leather interior. “You're lawyering has not impressed. You should know these things, Shelly, like drilling box locks, and the seven year itch after your husband goes missing.”

  She patted his hand, not wishing to burn any bridges that might later need recrossing. “You should have gently broken the news to me, instead of having it thrown in my face like a dash of ice water.”

  What a day it had been; starting at the crack of dawn, with Mac acting weird. It was no wonder she broke down at the coroner's office. “I think that horrid black man enjoyed upsetting me.”

  Shelly sympathized with a there, there pat on her knee. “Some public servants have no tact.” There still might be a way to access her ephemeral millions, somewhere down the road. If that tree hugger screwed up, it would open the opportunity to convince a partisan judge to appoint him conservator of the estate. Maybe even guardian of the daughter, and custodian of her share of the inheritance. If she had one. He parked the Lexus in front of the veranda, realizing he needed a second look at the will.

  He never got the chance. As Shelly climbed out of the driver's seat Honey slipped in, and sped away. With the will in her purse, and the key to box 342 in her lacy black bra.

  Plan B. Go to the bank, and grab the box full of hundred-dollar bills. Use them to recreate her escape from Mississippi twenty years earlier, minus the crappy car and the toddler.

  Honey gave a last look at the farmhouse, the tumble-down barn, Lake Magnolia. Am I going to miss this place? Yeah, for as long as it takes to drive to the bank.

  It took fifteen minutes to arrive at First Union, and another thirty seconds to drive thru McDonald's, order an iced latte, and park in their lot. Where she had a clear view of the bank's front door.

  Sipping coffee, she called, and asked for president Collander. “Heston? Honey Poitrine. Listen, I need some advice. I just heard from my lawyer—not the congressman, he's useless. My corporate lawyer tells me it's going to take much longer than I thought to settle my husband's estate.”

  She lowered her voice, the way actors did, when sharing a secret. “Quite frankly, I need money. I know the farm is in Mac's name, but I wonder; is there some way I can borrow against it? Really? Could you possibly come out here, and discuss it with me? I place myself in your most capable hands. Half an hour? Oh, I don't know how I can thank you.” But, from the way your eyes wander, I bet you'll think of something.

  Minutes later the banker hurried out the door, climbed in a black Cadillac, and sped away. Honey gave him five minutes. Then she tucked her Gucci under her arm, reached for her big leather Coach tote in the back seat, and sought out the Welsh squirt. Emyr.

  “Emyr, you dear boy, I need your assistance with my box.” Her hands were full as she leaned over his desk and said, “The key is in my bra. Fish it out, will you?”

  Stammering in Welsh, he followed her instructions.

  Safely ensconced in a cubicle, her heart raced as she prepared to dump the banded bills into the tote bag. “Goodbye Wilkes-Barre, hello Hollywood.”

  She lifted the lid, and stared into the empty box. Not quite empty; a single hundred dollar bill mocked her. Rank-smelling sweat dampened her armpits, and she had to lower her head between her knees. Breathe breathe breathe. Think think think.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The farm had an eerie, abandoned feel as Mac parked in front of Honey's architectural violation of the old building. Just a few hours ago everyone was busy; Mags off to be a vice president, Honey to play MC with the governor. Rosetta was preparing an al fresco luncheon, and Dr. Q was contemplating his navel.

  The door was locked, and there was no sign of Dr. Q or Rosetta. Where was his Mercedes?

  He moved the company truck behind the old barn, entered through the unlocked kitchen door, and wearily climbed the back stairs. He put his wet clothing in the trash, and his battered body under a hot shower.

  Turning on Mags' waterproof shower radio, he scrubbed the grime from his body, and listened to the breathless details of the morning's disaster. One dead, one arrested, and one missing.

  Mac wondered which one had died, who was arrested. Was it the guy with the pistol inside, or Spider, outside? He decided the missing one would stay that way, at least until he could meet with King.

  He found ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet, and an ancient Timex in his sock drawer, along with cufflinks, his high school swimming medal, and a lone safe deposit key. The one to box 342 was missing. He stuck the other one in his wallet, put on clean clothes and new shoes, and he was a refurbished, if not new, man. He heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

  A strange car pulled up to Honey's veranda, and Heston Collander climbed out, knocked on the front door. Mac watched his banker pace back and forth, try the doorknob. He was about to run downstairs, and find out what Collander wanted, when the banker returned to his car, cell phone to his ear, and left. The phone in the kitchen was ringing.

  By the time Mac got to the phone it had kicked over to the answering machine, and the banker's voice echoed off the walls. “Ms. Poitrine, Heston Collander here. Here being the operative word. I knocked on your door, saw no signs of life. No cars in your driveway. Did I somehow misunderstand? I'm quite positive you wanted to meet at the farm.”

  There was a brief pause, and the sound of an engine starting. “For tax purposes the farm's assessed in the mid six figures, and it's easily worth twice that. So you could borrow a substantial amount, but at a shockingly high interest rate. Let me know if you want me to go forward with this, and I'll speak to our real estate appraiser.”

  My corpse ain't cold and my wife is looking to borrow money. Mac drew a glass of water at the sink, drank it down. Why?

  A blinking light told him there was another message. “Hey, how's my big old gal doin'? They find Mr. Mac yet? I ducked on out of there in all the confusion. Didn't want to answer questions, since I ain't exactly legit. Don't hold a civilian blaster's license. Not that it was my fault the place come down ahead of schedule, and in the wrong place. But you know that,
sweet cheeks. Anyhow, I'm halfway to Jersey, I got to thinking. What am I running for? When the widow is grieving and all. So I'm turning around next exit, coming back to comfort you. Be there in about an hour, babe.” Click.

  Mac replayed the message. Nothing incriminating in it. And maybe the Taser had triggered the explosion. Maybe Spider and Honey deserved each other.

  He erased both messages, and raided the big, double-door refrigerator, where he found Rosetta's luncheon menu. Spanish Embassy cocktail party food. Saran-wrapped platters, with hand-lettered flags on toothpicks. Ensalada Rusa. Berenjena con Vinagreta. Pimientos rellenos.

  Melon con Jamon Serrano turned out to be ham and honeydew, and he filled a plate, then uncorked a bottle of Cava, which turned out to be champagne with a different name. He ate, standing at the kitchen sink.

  The food wasn't all that different from what he'd ordered from the hotel kitchen in Atlantic City, the night he'd hosted the City Fathers, to pitch tearing down the old convention center.

  He smiled at the memory of Mags serving the old men, wearing a grown-up girl dress that matched her mother's.

  Honey played trophy wife with all the acting skills she used in infomercials, both as a waitress needing Advil to get her through a long day, and a wife serving tea to her mother-in-law, while wearing leak-proof undies.

  But it was Mags who stole the show, talking about Daddy Mac, and his skill in tearing down buildings. She invented a row house between a historical building and a hospice that even had Mac believing it.

  He rinsed his plate in the sink, re-corked the wine. He needed answers to questions not fully-formed. Time to head to King's office.

  —o—

  Honey left the bank, mired in the depths of despair. Just days ago she'd been the wife of a successful contractor, and carried her AMEX card in either a Gucci or a Coach. What the hell had happened?