It’s a long time before I get a reaction, which happens suddenly: “You seem very sure of that.”
And in a minute he is sitting up and asking reasonable questions.
“What is that a picture of, then? Who could have done such a thing? Where did they get a photo of your mother?”
He moves to sit straight and rubs his eyes. “Do you know, Carla, I don’t think about her very much. I would have said I don’t remember what she looked like. Is that possible?”
I say, yes, it’s possible.
“But I believe I dream about her . . . Dreaming is a problem. Sometimes I’m not sure whether I have dreamed an experience or actually done it.
“I think I must have loved her,” he adds after a minute. “Is that possible, too?”
I say, yes, possible. I advance the opinion that people’s emotions are unchartable. My father is upset and I am upset, which makes me sound like his Sunday school teacher.
We try to probe the question of how he got the picture—did he find it? Did someone hand it to him?
He thinks it may have been slipped under his door, but he’s not sure. “I seem to have forgotten everything this morning until now. Is that possible, too, Carla?”
Oh, my, yes. Bad show.
I take the rest of the day off and settle down to watching television, side by side with my dad. We watch Antiques Roadshow and Spongebob Squarepants and the children’s show where they teach you the alphabet. In between times I canvass the hall to see if anyone has noticed a stranger who might have put an envelope under Daddy’s door. But nobody has.
Chapter 21
And now my father is missing.
I am in pursuit, driving much too fast down the bends and jerks of ocean-hugging Highway One. And I am very upset and very scared.
“Well, naturally; we knew he would take off.” This is Mrs. La Salle’s comment this morning when I show her his empty bed. The bed is sketchily, inadequately remade, the way it would be if he himself had pulled the covers up after getting out of it. Sunshine says, Uh-uh, she doesn’t think he had breakfast this morning, though maybe he grabbed a popover, y’know? She didn’t see him. Susie says, “Oh, the dear man, the pull of freedom was too strong.”
How would the pull of freedom get him from the Manor to the museum, where I’m sure he is?
A telephone call to the museum produces an automated voice describing Egypt Regained’s celebration today of Dr. Scott Dillard’s Amazing Discoveries. Tickets are hawked. I can’t get through to a human being.
Of course my father is there. In the middle of it all.
On the other hand, maybe he went to the hospital to get his calcium shot.
Once last year he called an ambulance. If you announce in a quavery voice that you are eighty-six years old and feel bad, they will come for you.
I drive somewhat faster.
Hi Ed—and thinking of you here at the museum. Have you been practicing your answers to get into that boat to the Other Shore? I am waiting for you, old chum; remember that talk we had about not prolonging things? You and I both think eighty-six is too damn old. Copper sulfate is a messy avenue to the new life; there are better ones. Try the sample attached. I send it with love. Marcus.
A flying visit to the hospital to consult about poison wouldn’t help; I have no idea what Marcus sent him from the other world.
I don’t even want to think about this; I just want to act fast. I’m glad neither Susie nor Mrs. La Salle could come with me. I need to work unimpeded.
There are exactly two people who know enough about my dad’s situation to have written that note, which is computer printed in an imitation script. Scott Dillard is one such person and Egon Rothskellar is the other. I get a moment’s clutch in the belly remembering how good it was to kiss Scott Dillard. Leaning against the shiny stainless steel machinery in Egon’s kitchen.
Scott has the brains and knowledge and drive for anything. He wanted to get my dad and me out of the museum. He probably knew about my dad’s marriage to Constancia. He probably knew her. He’s involved to his chin in plots and schemes.
And he’s smart.
Another thing. Oh my God. I haven’t wanted to think about this, because I kind of liked him. But Rita’s death? Scott was at our table in the Best Western. I walked away, out to the ladies’ room with Rita. She had her back to him, the perfect target.
I told myself I could see him the whole time, out of the corner of my eye. Well, could I?
And Egon wasn’t even there at the Best Western. Bunny says he was at the museum. They were both at the museum, prowling around, trying to figure out who was stealing the doodads.
Egon’s been doing some evil things to my dad, and he’s not long on brains. But people don’t get jailed for stupidity.
Egon is stupid; Scott is smart. Somebody at the museum has been killing people. Two people: Marcus, Rita. And now somebody has it in for my father.
Somebody smart. What was the matter with me, necking in the kitchen with a guy that I knew in my heart might, just might . . .
If I drive any faster on this road, I will project myself off the cliff and into the blue Pacific, which lurks there to my right, utterly beautiful, utterly dispassionate.
Let’s plan ahead. What I am going to do now? I will enter the museum through the main door. Right away, I’ll start looking for my father in all the museum nooks and crannies: his own Edward Day Room, upstairs in the pottery and artifact rooms, restrooms, closets. I will also watch out for Scott. When I see him, I’ll . . . I’ll figure that out later.
I’ll look downstairs in the crypt.
I have to slow down; there’s more traffic now, all headed toward the museum.
Finally I’m at the gas station and church in Homeland and turn inland on the gravel road that leads to Egypt Regained. And right away I’m part of a small traffic jam. One of a line of vehicles waiting to see Dr. Scott Dillard’s Amazing Discoveries.
People in the cars that I pass wave at me. They don’t seem to mind waiting; they’re in a holiday mood. Amazing Discoveries probably involves Mummies. And Treasure. Maybe something about Eternal Life. These are the wonders people come to Egypt Regained in search of. Certainly they’re worth waiting for.
I want to push these people out of my way. Stupid moon-faced dopes, lounging in their big cars, getting in my way when my dad is settled in some corner, curled up in agony, coughing his guts out.
It takes me fifteen minutes to reach the end of the gravel driveway. There’s a big pileup of traffic there with a youth in a red visibility vest signaling stop, go, and proceed at the SUVs, Chryslers, Cadillacs. Under his red vest he wears his long white Arab outfit.
I circumvent him and his traffic and quick-step for the entrance. Daddy was okay last week about the copper sulfate and didn’t eat it even though he was instructed to do so. But will he be sensible this time? I send him a mental message: Darling, Marcus didn’t really write that note. You know he didn’t.
Now I’m at the entrance door. Please, goddess, don’t make me stop and make chit-chat with Bunny. The folksy exchange about me, about my dad, referred to as Pop, about that place where we’re staying—what do we call it—some manor or something?—and how are things there?
I think I’m going to throw up.
Thank God no Bunny guards this entrance. Just one of the Harouns, who recognizes me and lets me in ahead of the line.
And inside is a battle area. Some of it is organized, some of it not. The organization happens in haphazard queues, one group waits for a lecture, one has lapel buttons for a tour, banners overhead advertise, AMAZING DISCOVERIES. CELEBRATION AT 2 P.M. People shove and drop things and buy books.
There is no sweet old white-haired gentleman.
People are sitting on benches, fidgeting, gossiping. They think things are funny. Maybe they’re waiting for the Celebration, maybe for lunch. A smaller sign, pointing up the stairs, announces, BUFFET UPSTAIRS. 12 NOON.
I circle and elbow, poke in
to corners, squeeze around sturdy ladies in lavender pantsuits, invade the book sales alcove. I get called down, “Sweetheart, take it easy, we’re all in here together, right?” I wriggle into the Edward Day Room.
I go upstairs, disregarding people who yell at me that the buffet isn’t until noon.
Back downstairs I try Egon’s office. It’s sturdily locked.
I scan each face. Anybody halfway sensible-looking gets asked, “Have you seen . . . ?” I’m looking for a small, erect, white-haired man. He wears a tweed suit and, probably, a vest. He is very gentle-appearing.
Daddy liked that crypt.
“Hey,” I address a Haroun who looks familiar, “do you know my dad? Dr. Edward Day?”
“Hey, yeah, sure.” The Haroun seems grateful to be addressed by a fellow human being. “Sure I know your dad.”
The Haroun surveys me, friendly. “You’re his daughter, right, Dr. Day’s? Didn’t you go to Santa Cruz?”
I am definitely going to throw up.
The Haroun also went to Santa Cruz, but he was four years behind me. In spite of the clot in my throat, I talk to him. Maybe my father isn’t here at all. Maybe he’s not full of poison. The minute I tell myself that, my stomach clenches, bruises my ribs, starts to invade my throat.
I should have checked with Tallullah at the hospital. Don’t they have a universal poison antidote? One that works on anything?
I should have shipped my pride and called Rob. He’s a doctor.
I should have slept on my dad’s window seat this whole last week. What’s wrong with me, pretending the Manor’s safe? Anybody can get in there. There are side doors, back doors, basement doors. It’s a leaky Victorian mansion. There are French floor-to-ceiling doors. Oh, Christ.
“Hey,” says the Haroun, surveying me closely, “you all right?”
No, I’m not all right. I examine him. “What’s your real name?” He brightens up. Probably he thinks, poor guy, that I’m making get-acquainted gestures.
He’s not one of the blond crew of Arab attendants; he has dark hair and dark eyes and a lively expression and he looks more Berkeley than Central Valley. He says his name is Walt. “You gonna pass out?”
“Listen,” I say to Walt, “I’m looking for my dad. You remember him? I’ve looked everywhere. I need to get down in the crypt.”
We do some jockeying where Walt says, “Oh, the crypt,” and I say, “My dad forgets. Suppose he was locked in down there?” And the minute I say that, my stomach clenches again so I have to turn my head away.
Walt says, “Locked in. Oh, Jesus.” And pretty soon he has gotten the electronic keys from their secret stashaway and we have fought our way through the crowds in the main room and the lobby and we’re at the closet with its access to the downstairs staircase. “Now watch it on the way down,” Walt cautions. “I gotta get back. You can get out at the other end.”
It’s dark on the staircase, but he turns a switch that produces a halogen glow that bleaches everything white. Then he slams the door. It closes behind me and right away the air gets eerily silent, a complete TV mute-button effect. All gone, the clamor from upstairs. We have stillness and stone and glare, plus the scuffle of my feet. And that intrusive medieval church cold rock smell, with something extra—incense, maybe.
A scary combination. I remind myself: I’m looking for my father. Later I can think about being scared.
I’m scared about him.
Also about who else is down here.
An enemy? Sure. Maybe.
Somebody sent him poison. Somebody sent him my mother’s picture.
Somebody means ill.
I grab the metal handrail and take the steps slowly and listen to my own footsteps and try to stay alert for other sounds. The scrunch of a little, scared person in the dark.
The steps are stone.
I won’t go there.
At the bottom of the stairs is the passageway with the recessed cubbyholes and the skulls. Ceramic skulls, that’s what Egon assured our tour group. The recessed places are painted blue. There’s no light in this passageway and none ahead in the black crypt-space, but the glow from the stairs shines down the passage for a while.
I take a minute to wonder about building something that imitates the Paris charnel house. Skulls and femurs, ribs. A claustrophobic avenue of skeleton pieces poked into a wall. Was it Egon or his grandmother that wanted this art piece?
If it was his grandmother, she was a pretty weird old lady.
I do not have a flashlight. I remember that Rita brought a flashlight when she came down here. I wish you were here, Rita. I wish your flashlight was here. The dark is marching closer, tighter; I have to feel ahead for each step.
I don’t see another light switch.
Daddy, dear. Maybe I do have that sixth hunch sense. I think I’m having it now. I know you’re in here, parent mine. You’re frightened. When people are scared, they freeze and don’t make noise. They lie clenched on themselves, waiting for someone to find them. Hey, old trooper, I’m coming. Hang in.
Thinking stuff like that is something to do besides freaking. I almost don’t feel like throwing up.
A pause, holding on to the wall, which is too slick to hold on to. The passage has gotten so dark my feet are lost. Blue jeans on my legs, then nothing. Ahead another nothing; the world just stops. Maybe a bend in the passage. Midnight. Then maybe the crypt.
There’s got to be a light switch. What did Egon do when he took us down here? Did he make a magic gesture with a remote?
I keep going, feeling ahead with each footstep. The ground isn’t level; maybe it was carved from the same rock as the walls, uneven, slippery. I stretch my right hand out, grasp rounded as if for an imaginary flashlight.
At the bend in the passageway I’ve reached it. The point of no return. Around the corner it’s totally dark. If he’s in the crypt, I won’t be able to see him.
How did Egon turn on the lights? I scour my memory.
And what’s the floor plan of the crypt? Memory does better here. The crypt is circular. Or maybe octagonal, with columns marking the eight sections. In the middle is the sarcophagus, in two parts like a giant double wedding cake, one layer below, one above. There’s carving, and columns, and a separate lid for each bit. Egon’s grandmother lies below and Egon himself will rest above.
Cherie and I shared a joke about “grandmother below.”
Probably I should have told Cherie what I’m doing today. It’s time to get over my Cherie reservations.
I think I hear something, maybe a tiny scrape, maybe something moving. You don’t get building-settling noises in a carved underground tomb, do you? Not unless you’re having an earthquake. And I won’t go there, either. The sound could be rats. Or my imagination. Or my dad, lying damaged, curled, moving his legs a little.
Or it could be somebody creeping quietly.
With or without a light, I’ve got to march on into that dark space.
I slide the pack down with an appalling crash and start throwing stuff out on the floor. But then I can’t see what I’m doing, so I scrape it all together again and maneuver back up toward the better light. And squat. Once more I upend the pack and right away get a mound of anonymous paper: bills, receipts, ads, mail, a mashed photograph of me and Rob. After that the hard stuff: lipstick, phone—oh, good grief, phone, but then I punch the button and it doesn’t work down here—credit card case, wallet.
At the bottom of everything are crumbs, Kleenex, a ginger candy. And another lipstick. I haul that out and examine it and it isn’t a lipstick. My heart goes plop. It’s Rita’s cigarette lighter. “Hang on to this in memory of me,” was what she said that time in my room.
Rita, honey, ohmigawd, thank you. Today I do remember you.
Feeling along and being apprehensive. Listening for my dad. Yes, I do hear that slight noise again. Now I decide, definitely, yes; it’s the one someone makes lying down and scraping their leg on an uneven surface.
I am almost at the cryp
t now.
The lighter has a transparent chamber to hold the fluid. And I can see that it’s getting low. Hell and hell. I leave longer spaces between crunches. But each flare doesn’t show me much. A wavering vista of carved rock, flickering sidewall. Skulls grinning, like skulls.
Me stumbling, foot, by foot. Crunch, flare.
A protrusion that could be a foot. A mound like a person, folded into a heap. Two more lighter-tries and I’ve almost reached it. And it’s not my imagination. There is somebody. A body. Somebody folded into a U.
My dad, my father. My brave old crazy parent. Down here and scared. Sick. Just as I thought.
But I do another lighter-flash and another view of the figure and I know something’s the matter. Everything. The leg appears, wearing battered dark fabric. Dark blue fabric. Jeans. And the foot’s too big and is wearing a sports shoe. I kneel beside it, frantically pushing the lighter-wheel.
I move the light farther along.
The person on the floor isn’t my father.
It’s Scott Dillard.
My lighter is down to zilch. A tiny fire-bubble at the end of a cotton string. Scott Dillard is unmoving. He’s sprawled out across this rock floor. His head’s half thrown back. His arms are outspread. His hands rest, palms up.
My light is about to go. I know Scott is the enemy, a murderer; I should be wary of him, but my response is autonomic. Not in my control. I reach out and seize one of his outflung hands and try to hold it.
My cigarette lighter dies.
Chapter 22
It’s so dark in the crypt that the air has texture. Souplike, as if you could drink it. I squat on the carved stone floor and Scott Dillard seems to be beside me. I can’t see him but I can feel him, all right; he’s holding me viciously by the wrist. He has just offered to push my teeth down my throat.
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