Mitch felt the volley was his. “Well, if it helps,” he offered, “I’d say Dad had a couple hundred thousand in assets. So he should have had a will. But that’s the kind of thing normal people do, so he probably didn’t.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Andy. “Where are the ashes, by the way?”
“I brought them home. They’re in the freezer,” Mitch answered. Nobody seemed impressed by his answer. “What do you do with ashes?”
“I don’t think they need refrigeration.”
Mitch shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t really like having them—him here in the house. Can you take him, Mom? Until the memorial service.”
Wow, thought Andy. Even in death, Mark was the family hot potato.
With that, the three fell silent. Mitch smiled, turned his face upward to the night sky and began blowing smoke rings until the other two couldn’t resist the challenge and joined in.
Chapter 5
What Goes on in Texas
Tucked up against the Rio Grande just north of the Mexican border is McAllen, Texas; not the sort of place Andy expected Mark Kornacky to put down roots. He had been an LA boy, born and bred. But after the divorce, he headed to Texas to stay with an old college buddy and never returned. It was there he had worked at his lucrative, if unsteady, occupation as a salesman for several car dealerships, a medical supplier, a pesticide manufacturer, and half a dozen cell phone companies.
Texas was also where Mark had married his next three wives. His first new wife, post-Andy, was named Kathy, and the relationship lasted five years before she had enough. Andy suspected that his next choice, Renatta, was likely a keeper because the couple stayed together nearly 15 years. She developed cancer late in the marriage, and Mark reportedly remained at her side until the end. Tilda, on the other hand, was just getting fired up.
It had been a whirlwind romance, according to Mitch, who periodically filled his mother in on the basics. In the few short months they’d been together, Mark and his young wife had been to New Age conventions in New York, New Orleans and Chicago, where Tilda performed tarot card readings, while Mark sold ambience oils and scented candles. They had also taken up salsa dancing and gone on several short cruises south of the border to learn new steps. And in a move that impressed even Andy, Mark and his latest love had both been cast as members of the chorus in a community theater production of Les Miserables at the McAllen Center for the Performing Arts. It was as if her ex-husband was determined to get the party started again after Renatta’s long, drawn-out illness. No matter how Mark had actually died, Andy felt fairly confident that he was likely having a blast at the time.
By Andy’s calculation, following their divorce her ex had never remained single for more than ten months at a stretch. He also never had any more children. Putting it all in perspective, she could see now that Mark Kornacky was a man who desperately needed someone by his side and absolutely wanted no one tagging along behind. Oddly, Andy discovered just the opposite about her own desires after the split; she loved living alone, and there was nothing better in the world than the four ducklings who once followed her every move. The more Andy faced the fact that she and Mark had never been a good match, the more she felt she might someday be able to forgive him—and maybe herself.
Andy looked at her watch. She had been dialing various numbers all morning to find out exactly who to contact about getting the death certificate: the McAllen City Secretary of Vital Statistics, the Hildago County Clerk or the Texas Department of State Health Services. When she started her search three hours ago, she naively thought that she would be able to complete an online form, enter her Visa card number, and order a copy by email. However, the digital request forms all stated that only the spouse or children of the deceased could use the form. In addition, the form required the date and location of Mark’s death, neither of which had been divulged by Tilda in her note.
After another ten minutes of listening to a continuous loop of Mozart’s Magic Flute, she hung up and reconsidered her options. Maybe she should begin again by checking the obituaries for the preceding two weeks in the local paper to see if she could find Mark’s date of death. She searched ‘McAllen newspaper’ and quickly found a website for a daily called The Monitor, with a tab for obituaries on the homepage. She clicked the tab. There she found a list of dates. She clicked on a date and found a list of names. Each name led to its own obituary. She steeled herself to read down the first list, then the next, moving back in time. She looked back two weeks, but Mark’s name wasn’t there. It was possible he’d died three weeks, or even a month before, but why would Tilda wait that long to contact Mitch?
Next, she searched for funeral homes, thinking she might get lucky and find where Mark had been cremated. She could find the date of death that way and maybe get one of the staff to make a simple photocopy of the death certificate, which she assumed was required before cremation. Her first search returned just three mortuaries with a McAllen address. She dialed the first number.
“Calderon Funeral Home,” the male voice answered.
“Do you do cremations?” Andy asked.
“We can arrange for that, if you’d like.”
“Yes, well, I’m actually trying to find out when and where my—a friend of mine was cremated recently.”
“And you think we arranged the cremation?”
“I’m not sure, but I wondered if you could check.”
“How recently?” the man on the other end asked.
“Well, within the last two or three weeks.”
“Which is it, ma’am, the last two or the last three weeks?”
“Three weeks. Could you check the last three weeks?”
“What’s the name?”
She could hear the sound of keystrokes. “Kornacky. Mark Kornacky. K-o-r-n-a-c-k-y,” she spelled out, as her pulse picked up its pace. Finally, warm-blooded assistance. So much better than meandering around online in the digital darkness.
“Kornacky. Kornacky,” he repeated and lapsed into silence.
Not much of a talker, she realized. Still, he had a pulse. Another two minutes and he said, mechanically, “Still checking.”
Okay, even Siri had more personality, she admitted.
Finally, the verdict was in. “No, no Kornacky. Sorry.”
“You checked back three weeks?”
“That’s right.”
After so much failure this morning, Andy’s endorphins finally took a dive; she slumped back in her chair. “Oh, well, thank you. I appreciate it,” she managed. Then, loathed to let go of an asset who was both sentient and local, she asked, “Ah, and before I hang up, can you tell me who else in the area handles cremations?”
“Almost any funeral home can provide the service, ma’am. And Mr. Kornacky could have been cremated in a nearby town like Pharr. Or Mission.”
“Oh.” Andy contemplated the prospect of adding another column of names to the list of potential human incinerators in the Lone Star state.
“And then, of course, there’s always Reynosa,” he said, in a tone that was anything but robotic.
“Reynosa?”
“Across the border.”
“People go to Mexico for cremations?”
“People go to Mexico for almost anything, ma’am. You know what it’s like there.”
Time to stop with the questions, Andy determined, because she didn’t know what it was like in Mexico. Right now it was hard enough figuring out what it was like in Texas. “Okay, well, thank you,” she said, adding, “I mean it. You’ve been really helpful.”
The voice perked up.
“I have?”
“You have. So thank you.”
“Ah, shucks,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
She realized it was the only time she’d smiled all morning. She hung up the phone and ruminated on how to say cremation in Spanish. Cremacion?
“I just finished the Antichrist. You want to read it?” Harley was hovering over her, having wandered into her l
oft office from his bedroom down the hall.
“No, thanks. I’m more the Bhagavad-Gita type,” she answered, putting down the phone and surrendering to the invasion.
“Huh?”
“Never mind. It was a joke.”
“If you say so,” he said, as if he knew what funny was and that wasn’t it. “So what are you doing?”
“I thought I’d try to get a copy of my former husband’s death certificate. You know, to find out the cause of death.”
Harley sat down on the small sofa near her desk and looked dangerously close to settling in for a chat. “You mean, the medical examiner’s report.”
He’d forgotten to put it in the form of a question. Or worse, he hadn’t meant to. “I do?”
“I don’t think a death certificate would be as helpful.”
“Really? How do you know this, Harley?”
“I watch a lot of TV.”
“Hmm,” she replied. “I guess that explains it.” The real question, of course, was ‘how did she not know this?’ After all, she watched a lot of TV, too. Hell, she wrote a lot of TV. The truth was she did know this; she just hadn’t made the distinction. Why did it take the Nebraska Numbskull to point it out to her?
“Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right,” she said. “I’d forgotten that. But if he died of natural causes, there would be no need for a medical examiner, right?” Immediately she regretted having added ‘right?’ to her statement. As if she needed his confirmation.
“Right,” he confirmed.
It was getting harder and harder to decide who she was more annoyed with these days, the kid or the old lady.
Reclining into the sofa, he rested his chubby fingers on his adolescent midriff. “Okay. So let’s back up here,” he began. “What do you really want to know exactly?”
With some difficulty, she sublimated the urge to wring his plump neck, ultimately giving in to his perfectly practical question. “I want to know what Mark died from and whether or not he had a will.”
“Two simple questions,” he decreed.
“Yes. Two simple questions.”
“What, therefore, is the simplest answer?”
Were they teaching the Socratic method in Sunday school now? “Okay, what’s the simplest answer?”
“Call his widow,” Harley told her, matter-of-factly.
“Ahhhh,” she said. Of course, that was the answer, if you were not the kind of person who made stupid promises to your children. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“The hex thing.” Oh my god, she cringed, I’m making Harley Davidson sound like the grown-up in the room.
He touched the tips of his fingers together and let his hands drop slowly forward, until his body language was aiming right at her. “Hexes are contrary to God’s will, Aunt Andy. The dark arts are the work of the Devil. This is exactly why I would like you to read more about the Antichrist.”
She felt a familiar disquietude worming its way back into her life, the kind of agitation she hadn’t felt since her youngest exited the nest. Patience, she reminded herself; pubescent testosterone requires patience.
“I don’t believe in the Antichrist, Harley. And, if I did, I doubt that Tilda would even get a Top Ten nomination. However, she is eccentric. No doubt about that. More to the point, she could be crazy. So I have promised my children that I would have no direct contact with her. Ever.”
“They don’t want you to call her?
“No.”
“Okay. No problem,” he replied. “I’ll do it.”
“You?”
“Why not?”
Another remarkably astute question, she conceded, imagining the possibility. It would be like Pat Robertson calling the Wicked Witch of the West.
“What a great idea,” she agreed, swiveling back toward her computer screen. “I’ll look up the number for her palm reading business in McAllen.” She pointed to the screen. “Here it is.”
Swiveling back again, she handed him the cordless phone. “Okay. You’re on. What are you going to say?”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell her I’m related to the family,” he said.
“That’s good. But what are you going to say?”
Without deigning to respond, he punched in the numbers and closed his eyes. His index his finger dangled perilously over the ‘call’ button.
OMG, he’s praying, she thought. Is he thinking about speaking to her in tongues?
Finally, he opened his eyes and confided, “The Lord fortifies those who trust in His Name, Aunt Andy. I’m totally ready.” Then he pushed the green button.
Along with her nephew, she could hear the ringing on the other end of the line. A woman’s voice answered. Andy closed her own eyes to steel herself, while she waited for Harley to open his mouth. But the moment the voice stopped, he pushed down the red button and put the phone back in its cradle.
She couldn’t believe he chickened out. “Harley!”
“The number is no longer in service,” he explained.
“Oh. Sorry,” she muttered. “Not your fault. I guess I just wasn’t expecting she’d be gone.”
“It’s okay. Our Lord knew.”
“What?”
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t be disappointed. God has a plan.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I mean, He was probably just saving Tilda from His wrath.”
It took Andy a minute to glean his meaning. “You were going to deliver the wrath of God?” she asked, incredulous.
“That was my likely purpose,” he said, as if he were only the messenger. “But now we’ll never know because He obviously didn’t want her to hear what I had to say. The important thing is that God is working on a plan for you and Tilda.”
“We have a joint plan?” she winced. “Are you kidding me?”
The pudgy hands came together in one of those prayer-like gestures that portend a lesson for the listener. Andy’s hand shot up in front of her like a protective shield.
“Enough, Harley!” she erupted. She counted to three. Then added an extra three before going on. “Thank you. But enough.” She turned her chair back toward the computer.
Undeterred, the future preacher went on. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform, Aunt Andy.”
Evidently, Tabernacle U had a class in Christian clichés, and Harley was acing it.
“Well, He doesn’t seem to be working all that much, if you ask me,” Andy quipped, opening her email. “I’d say it’s time to take those wonders to the next level, because I’m pretty much back to square one.”
To her surprise, he said nothing. It was the first time the boy had actually taken sarcasm for an answer. She waited, and still he was silent. Finally, she glanced over to see if she’d caused any permanent psychological damage.
His body was slouched forward, elbows on knees, hands folded, head tilted, and laconic eyelids drooped in reptilian sadness. “I don’t understand why you hate God so much, Aunt Andy,” he said.
“I don’t hate God, Harley,” she replied, dreading where this was headed. “I’m just not all that interested in God.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“But you do believe in God, don’t you?”
There it was, the question she’d been dodging since his arrival and the hobgoblin of Harley Davidson’s little mind. Resigning herself to the discussion, she vowed to make it as short as possible.
“It’s not so much that I don’t believe in God. It’s more that I don’t care. Think of it as a kind of divine neglect.”
He tilted his head the other direction and let his lids close. She waited.
The lids opened again. “I don’t think I understand. How can you neglect the Almighty?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
But she could see it did.
He continued to ponder. Finally, he tried another approach. “Well, if you’re not interested in God
, what are you interested in?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not really a joiner, Harley.” She knew she needed lunch because her combative impulses were waning. “Maybe that’s why I became a writer. I kind of like sitting on the sidelines.”
“What sidelines?”
She searched for an answer that was honest but probably outside the teenager’s immediate sphere of interest. “Well. Politics, I guess. That’s probably my favorite spectator sport.”
The way he nodded made her nervous.
“Politics,” he repeated. “That means you must believe in the Constitution then, right?”
She groaned regretfully. “Please, Harley, I need to eat some lunch.”
“Like the Second Amendment?”
Don’t go down this path, Andrea, she told herself. Stop now.
“You have an opinion on the Second Amendment, Harley?” she sneered, without even a hint of impulse control.
“Not yet,” he said, sitting up, eyelids perking. “We don’t really cover ‘concealed carry’ until our sophomore year at Our Savior’s.”
She gasped. “You actually talk about this stuff in class?”
He was transformed by her interest. “We sure do,” he agreed. “It’s all laid out for us. So we can understand everything. The Constitution. Politics. Science. History. Even America itself. We see it all as it was meant to be seen.”
Predictably, she grabbed the bait. “And how’s that?”
“Through the Biblical lens, Aunt Andy. My professors say that by the time I graduate, I will be one of the few people on earth looking directly through God’s glasses.”
She stood up. “I really have to stop now.”
“Stop what?”
“Talking to you, Harley. It’s making me crazy.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding more disappointed than apologetic. “I upset you, right?”
She nodded.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned the glasses. Is that it?”
She nodded again.
“I’m sorry. My professor says some truths are very hard to hear. I’m sorry.”
It was as if he just couldn’t help running his mouth across her mental chalkboard. “I’m going downstairs to eat,” she said firmly and headed for the steps.
Follow the Dotted Line Page 4