The Blue Hour

by Richard Teleky

  In the bathroom, a navy blue towel hung over the shower bar. While most of the white tiles had grayed with age, Guy kept the place immaculate. His electric shaver remained in place and a red tooth brush hung in a holder by the sink, a tube of Crest beneath it. The medicine cabinet held only a roll-on deodorant and a new tube of KY lubricant. I tossed everything but the shaver into a garbage bag. On top of the toilet tank sat a well-thumbed copy of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, and I remembered reading her Fountainhead when I was fourteen – a great book to grow out of. Guy probably didn’t know that Rand was also famous for greeting her young lover naked under a mink coat.

  Now face the basement, I told myself. Where Guy had died.

  First, I stopped in the kitchen. The cupboards that Sheila had painted held only a few packs of vegetable cubes, some cans of black beans, packages of dried pasta – the whole-wheat variety – and a dozen jars of spices. Hedy hadn’t said anything about the food but I doubted that she’d want it. Goodwill probably wouldn’t, either. The kettle I gave Guy sat on the sink, beside a cheap white plastic toaster.

  Finally, I flipped on the light at the top of the basement stairs. They felt solid enough as I headed down, trying not to imagine Guy at the bottom. He must have died without a will – who has a will at thirty-four? Not a young single man starting out on his own.

  For an older bungalow, the basement seemed dry. Its walls had been painted a celery green, but gray damp spots ran along their base where they met the floor. Guy’s big rolltop desk – the desk he was so proud of – had a scattering of papers over it. My footsteps echoed on the cement floor behind me. Had I locked the upstairs front door after coming in? The basement made me shiver. Freud has an essay called “The Uncanny,” written right after the First World War. It’s about death and ghosts and revenants, the things that give us the creeps. I was glad to think of it now. Even Freud sometimes got the creeps.

  Since there was no obvious cause of death, what had happened in this basement? Guy wasn’t epileptic, he didn’t have a seizure. And the wooden handrail beside the stairs felt secure to my hand, he shouldn’t have lost his step.

  I looked about slowly. The basement was made up of two spaces. I stood in the first of them, a small area with old wall shelves painted the same celery green, and Guy’s office furniture: his desk, a chair, and a battered metal filing cabinet with three drawers. A doorway, minus the door, led into the furnace room, with a sink to one side. No washer or dryer. I walked towards the darker room and saw that its windows had been painted over. The cracked white paint appeared to be ancient.

  Where had Guy’s landlady found his body? Sheila hadn’t mentioned it, nor had Hedy or Nick, and I hadn’t thought to ask. “In the basement,” that’s all anyone said. No one had suggested he’d fallen down the stairs, so his body might have been near the desk. I stared at the cement floor, long ago painted dark gray.

  Was it possible that someone had pushed Guy? Maybe that’s what the police thought.

  The chair at Guy’s desk hadn’t been moved back under it. I leaned over and picked up some papers. One photocopied sheet announced a “Civil War Encampment” at the James A. Garfield National Historic Site on Saturday, July 11. “Free Admission!” it proclaimed, above a list of activities. Re-enactment units would march, drill and fire weapons, and there would be a scavenger hunt – for what? – with music from the Camp Chase Fifes and Drums, a diorama of the Battle of Middle Creek, and even “a living history presentation of General Robert E. Lee.” Easy to imagine the crowds shoving and spilling pop and calling out at the top of their voices.

  The bottom of the sheet read “To Arms! To Arms!” and urged children ages five to twelve to volunteer for the Mini Militia, where they could drill with a toy Civil War rifle.

  More posters, all photocopies, announced similar events across the state. Was that how Guy planned to spend his summer, going from one Civil War re-enactment to another? Under them was a registration form, still to be filled out, for the convention of political items collectors at the Columbus Crown Plaza: July 31 to August 4. Guy had mentioned it, excited by the prospect of several ballrooms filled with political paraphernalia.

  The old desk had an aura of mystery to it, like something from one of the Hardy Boys novels I’d loved in the fourth grade. By now the teenage heroes would have examined every nook and cranny. I came up with mostly empty drawers. Of course I felt for secret compartments, I’d gotten into the right mood. If any letters from Beecher Stowe were still here, it made sense that Guy would have concealed them. One drawer contained an envelope of postage stamps, a ledger of eBay sales, some fountain pens, Scotch tape, and a box of paper clips. You’re an idiot, I laughed. This is what happens when you mix a little Freud with the Hardy Boys. Yet I felt disappointed, as if I’d failed Guy.

  No letters, anyway. I piled up the papers, which Hedy might need later, and checked the drawers of the filing cabinet, all empty. Had Guy fallen here and struck his head against it? I tried to imagine Neil following Guy down to the basement and pushing him into the wall. He had a marriage – or divorce – to protect.

  Or, out of jealousy, could Theo have shown up and threatened Guy?

  If Neil was right, Theo had spied on them one night. Driven past the house, stalking.

  My mind raced. In a minute I’d convince myself that Claire Warren had wrestled Guy for the Beecher Stowe letters.

  Surely not Theo? He was afraid of his own shadow.

  And Claire? Impossible. Not even for fifteen minutes of fame.

  Though I’d never taken to Neil, he didn’t seem like a rip-roaring psychopath.

  Ray Hatchard, then? Or some previous hookup?

  I’d wasted half an hour and, back upstairs, settled down to packing. Guy’s books took no time, and his kitchenware only a little longer. The cupboard held four tall souvenir glasses. I turned one around in my hand, its red and yellow decal advertising “Aunt Fanny’s Cabin’s Mint Julep Smyrna, Georgia.” The proprietor’s image, a stereotypical Jemima, reminded drinkers of the dinner menu, which included “gen-u-wine” Smithfield ham. Did Guy bring the glasses home from a visit with his grandmother in Knoxville? He certainly wasn’t mixing mint juleps. Perhaps Nick would want them.

  Soon Guy’s clothing filled several heavy-duty garbage bags in the living room. There was nothing here to shock Hedy or Nick: no pornographic DVDs, no box of flavored condoms, and no address book of unfamiliar names and telephone numbers, though that tube of KY, now disposed of, might have upset them. Guy, the beloved son, wasn’t supposed to grow up.

  Guy’s Civil War collection demanded more care. I had no idea of the value of his objects, but they felt genuine, though they might deceive an untutored eye. One rusty belt buckle had been stamped CSA, for the Confederate States of America, and a broken scabbard read, simply, CS. I rolled them all in bubble wrap. Guy’s photographs of the young soldiers saddened me most, since he’d taken his place with the dead, though for no grand cause. It seemed wrong that he’d had no funeral.

  Don’t go there now. I took the boxes into the living room and lined them along one wall, so that Hedy and Nick could avoid the rest of the house. Looking about, I realized that Hedy’s sculptures remained on the mantel. She’d never explained what compelled her to repeat her wildlife subjects, but an artist makes things, maybe that’s explanation enough. After wrapping the raccoons, I held the badger in hand. Its shape, its glazing, and the startled look on the creature’s face made this piece one of Hedy’s best. Later, she’d want it, she’d regret giving it away, so I put bubble wrap around it and set the sculpture with the raccoons.

  About to take a final walk through the house, I heard someone knock on the front door. I hadn’t mentioned the pack-up to Sheila, who might have spotted my car in Guy’s yard and been curious. But Hedy stood at the door. “It didn’t seem fair to leave it all to you,” she said.

  “Don’t say that, I wasn’t expecting you. We’ve known each other a hundred years.”

  She made
an effort to smile.

  “You haven’t been sleeping,” I said.

  “Not very well.” She came through the doorway, into the living room. Old bungalows like this one rarely have a hallway or foyer.

  “You really didn’t have to come, Hedy.”

  “Guy’s with us all the time, but he’s not with us any more. I can’t say what I mean.”

  “Is Nick in the car? Is he alright?”

  “He hasn’t had any more chest pains, so I told him to rest at home.” Hedy looked about at the boxes. “You’re finished already?”

  Probably out of habit she’d put on her bright lipstick, but no bangles or hair bow. She seemed gray, and aged, yet still beautiful.

  “It didn’t take that long. Wouldn’t it have been good for Nick to get out?”

  “He’s very depressed, and that frightens me. It’s almost like his last breakdown. There were days when he didn’t get out of bed, he just lay there staring at the ceiling. Now he gets dressed and sits in the living room all day, blank.”

  “The last time…”

  “He finally pulled out of it. After six months, and with some tranquillizers. I’m going to suggest them next week. I don’t want to wait longer.”

  I leaned an arm against the mantel. “You look tired. Why don’t you sit in the recliner.”

  “I can’t stay still.” Hedy paced about the room and then peered out the window.

  “Did you hear from the police again?”

  “Nothing more. They’ve called Guy’s death ‘undetermined,’ that’s it. I told you the coroner filed his report and the police did, too. They’ve signed off on Guy.”

  “They mustn’t have any leads.” I certainly wasn’t going to mention Neil or Theo.

  “I still think it was a home invasion. And it’s killing us.” She set her purse on one of the cardboard boxes.

  “You’re strong, Hedy, you have to count on that. It’s awful, what you’re both going through. I hate any talk about ‘letting go’ and ‘closure’. It’s too easy. It’s cruel.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled, her eyes shining, moist. “I don’t know how we’ll survive this.”

  “You’ve got to.”

  “I remember every minute of our marriage. Women can do that. We’re not cold, like men. That’s what drew me to Nick – he wasn’t a cold man. I’d never met anyone like him before. For the first time I didn’t feel alone, and I knew with Nick I’d never have to be alone again. Things change in a marriage but not that. In a real marriage you’re never alone again.”

  “It must have been hard for you, watching Guy without someone.”

  “He didn’t have many friends – he kept to himself, he was like us. People liked him and he got along with everybody but he preferred his own company.”

  “No one special?”

  “He mentioned a woman at work, at the clinic. I think he was interested. She was a few years older. Forty or so. And she has a daughter in high school.”

  “A dentist?”

  “No, another technician. But she was Catholic. Very devout, he said. And with our beliefs that might have been difficult. I didn’t encourage him. I think they’d gone out for pizza once or twice. He hadn’t known her long.”

  “You never met the woman?”

  “Oh, no.”

  Just new colleagues, of course. If only I’d found a diary or journal strategically hidden. The convenient deus ex machina. But not even an address book, nothing of the sort. Then it struck me that I hadn’t come across Guy’s cell phone, or his laptop.

  “I didn’t see his Beecher Stowe letters anywhere, and I practically took the desk apart.”

  “They might still be with one of the experts, to authenticate them.”

  “Or someone broke in and…” I suggested.

  “We warned him not to talk about them.”

  “Do the police know about the letters?”

  “I’m sure we told them.”

  “That’s good. I’ve set aside a few things you might want. There was a collection of poems by Rumi on the night table. I saw the inscription from you and Nick.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember it. A birthday present. He was fourteen, I think.”

  “It didn’t have a date.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have put one.” She shrugged.

  Maybe the omission had something to do with her beliefs about eternal time.

  “And some funny tall glasses. With decals from a restaurant in Georgia. Guy told me how much he liked visiting Nick’s mother in Tennessee, and about their trips to old battle sites. She probably took him there on an outing.”

  “When did he say that?” she asked abruptly.

  I’d forgotten the bad blood between the two women. “The night I dropped off the kettle.”

  Another shrug. “It could have been.”

  She didn’t seem interested in the glasses, so I said, “The boxes with papers are heavy, I’ll carry them out for you.”

  “Did you remember to take the badger?”

  “You’ll want it later,” I said, gesturing toward the box that held it. “It’s very fine, and Guy loved it. He told me so.”

  “You have to keep it, please. I insist. I’ll never make another. I want you to have it. We go back a long time.”

  After I retrieved the badger, and put several boxes in the trunk of her car, Hedy drove off, but first she blew a kiss at me. Our old bond still held us.

  13

  Friday, May 18

  Sheila’s house, several blocks from Guy’s, was surrounded by a flower garden out of the pages of a horticulture magazine. She’d missed her calling: landscape design. Along with the iris and peonies, delphinium and bleeding-hearts, now blooming profusely, she’d mixed less common plants like penstemon and baptisia and yarrow. And she made certain I knew their correct names, because cuttings often made their way into my yard.

  After parking in the drive I waved as Sheila came around from the back of her house. Tonight I was going to re-record the message on her answering machine. “Let’s sit on the patio, it’s nice out. Would you drink a light beer? I’m counting calories again.” She wiped her hands on her jeans, went into the house, and soon returned with two open bottles and her cigarettes. We sat at a wooden picnic table on the flagstone patio she’d built for herself.

  “This time there was a bag of dog shit by my front door, so I had the police out. I’m hoping for fingerprints on the bag. Loretta’s in the county system, it should be an easy search.”

  “If she was the one…”

  “Who else, I’d like to know? I wanted to press charges but there’s no proof yet. I have some valuable things here, and if that bitch gets in again there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

  The tougher Sheila tried to sound, the sadder she seemed. “You don’t think it was Brad?”

  “He’s provoked me plenty. I still have some of his crap locked in the garage. Would you believe it, he has a fancy set of golf clubs?”

  “Why don’t you just give him his things?”

  “He knows why.” She lit a cigarette and inhaled as if her life depended on it. “He owes me money and I want it back. Twelve hundred bucks – that’s a lot to me.”

  The beer didn’t taste bad, just watery. “Did you tell the police about the money?”

  “Sure. They said I should give Brad whatever belongs to him. You men stick together. If I could afford it I’d get a restraining order, but you probably need a lawyer.” She took a long swig of beer, then rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Okay, I thought. “Last Saturday I packed up Guy’s house for Nick and Hedy.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I just wanted to get it over with.”

  “God, it’s terrible. I miss him. Were your friends there?”

  “No, I did it for them. I wish I’d known him better.”

  “What did you find?”

  “His clothes, the standard housewares, that kind of stuff.”<
br />
  “And?” She missed him but was curious.

  “His Civil War books and memorabilia. I don’t know their value. That time I googled Confederate mementos…”

  “What?”

  “The night I took the kettle to Guy, he told me about some websites, and a few days later I looked at them. Some of the prices were pretty high. There was a sword with a broken handle going for five grand.”

  Her eyes widened. “I wonder if they’ll sell his stuff. He was so proud of his collection. You should ask them to donate it to the library.”

  “I can’t do that. They’ve just lost their son. It would be heartless.”

  “Depends how you ask. What else did you find?”

  “Guy hadn’t lived there long enough to own very much.”

  “What about his laptop?” she ventured.

  “It wasn’t on his desk. I didn’t find his cell phone either. And there was no land line.”

  “Nobody his age has one. I’ll bet the police are checking out his cell. There hasn’t been anything more in the papers.”

  “There’s nothing to report. Hedy said the coroner called Guy’s death ‘undetermined.’”

  “Undetermined?” Sheila lit another cigarette and took a languorous drag. The tips of her fingers were starting to yellow from nicotine. I used to know a lot of people who smoked, and for a moment the scent took me back in time, not unpleasantly.

  “They have to call it something. It wasn’t suicide, or a homicide.”

  “I wonder what’s on Guy’s computer? If the hard-drive wasn’t damaged. You could ask your friends.”

  “Sheila, please, don’t refer to them as ‘your friends.’ They have names.”

  “Sure. Okay.” She glowered at me.

  “Well, they do have names. What do you have against them?”

  “I don’t like them, isn’t that enough? But for a starter, they drained the life out of Guy. I’ve known him a long time. Maybe you’ve known his parents longer, but I’ve known Guy.”