by Chris Millis
Tommy’s mother was forty-nine years old and petite, with a sharp nose and frosted auburn hair. She was wearing a cotton floral print church dress and white gloves. In her hands she carried a bible, a hardcover copy of Am I Crazy by Dr. Sage Mennox, and a white wickerwork handbag adorned with pink plastic flowers.
“Really, Thomas. How can you leave me standing in that filthy hallway? And I am not a ‘dude’, I am your mother.”
Tommy Balls moaned and rubbed his red, puffy eye sockets.
“Your apartment is a sty, per usual, but I am not here to quarrel over that this morning.” She straightened herself up as tall as her 5’3” frame would allow. “Thomas, come to church with me today.”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“Yes, Thomas. There are services on Wednesday. The Lord is available seven days a week, not just on Sundays.” Tommy’s mother opened her Dr. Mennox book to the first flyleaf and read aloud: “Those who ignore their faith ignore their responsibilities, for faith is the first responsibility.”
“Even if I wanted to, on principle alone, I would not go to a church that had services on Wednesdays. Besides, I have to work today.”
Tommy’s mother walked her fingertips over the dog-eared corners of her Dr. Mennox book and cracked it open: “Work has its purpose and its rewards, but should never serve as an escape from your problems.”
“Mom! Can it with that Dr. Mennox crap. That guy is such a quack.”
Tommy’s mother’s eyes began to well up with tears. He could sense the shit storm coming.
“I’m not going to just write you off, Thomas, I am your mother. Are you hoping that I will just ignore your drug addiction? Hmm? Are you hoping I will just pretend that everything is hunky-dory? Well, I will not. I have eyes, Thomas. I see what is happening to you. What sort of life are you making for yourself? You are well on your way down the Road To Crazy. I will not stand idly by while you punch your ticket to eternal damnation!”
“Mom. Mom, don’t cry. Aw, Je-sus …”
“Taking the Lord’s name in vain. Right in front of your Christian mother!” Tommy’s mother sobbed as she crossed the room to dispose of her wet Kleenex. “And here is the thanks I get for trying,” she said as she lifted the paperback copy of Am I Crazy, by Dr. Sage Mennox, out of the waste-basket. “If I didn’t know better I would think you threw away this book because you can’t read. But the truth hurts even more.”
“What’s the truth, mom?”
“The truth, Thomas, is that you threw away this book to break your mother’s heart. Well, let me tell you something Thomas Jerome, I am not crazy. I am mentally fit and physically strong. But you, you are crazy. You walk with the heathens! Your mind is unbalanced, unfocused and impure! You have the power to change your life, Thomas, if you would only try. If you would only read Dr. Mennox.” Again, Tommy’s mother thumbed frantically through the worn pages. “Listen: The decision to change starts with you. But you must be willing to accept help from others. If someone who loves you offers their hand, take it. Take their hand and let them lead you off the Road to Crazy.”
“Mom …”
“You hear that? The decision is yours, Thomas.”
“Mom …”
“Come to church with me, Thomas. I beg you. Take my hand and I will lead you. Services start at 11:00. We can get a bagel and coffee on the way. Go take a shower while I iron a shirt for you.”
“I have to work at noon.”
Tommy’s mother buried her chin into her chest and sighed. “If you feel the Lord’s work is less important today than the work of the Open 24 Hours white trash convenience store, I don’t know what else I can say to convince you. I know you have to earn money to pay for your hashish or grass or whatever it is you put up your nose.” Tommy’s mother smoothed her cotton dress with her white-gloved hands. “Your father wished to be remembered to you.”
“I remember,” said Tommy. “Where’s he this morning? Pulling teeth or drinking scotch down at the K of C?”
“I should be going.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, Thomas?” Tommy’s mother crossed her arms around her books and squeezed them to her chest tightly.
“Can I borrow twenty?”
Suddenly a low, hollow tone began emanating from the floorboards. At first it sounded as though the plumbing was groaning and preparing to burst. But the volume grew louder and the pitch grew higher and Tommy’s mother braced herself against the door.
“Sakes alive!” gasped Tommy’s mother. “What on earth is that insane racket and where is it coming from?”
“That’s the fat hermit downstairs blowing his Alpine horn,” said Tommy. “Now, how about that twenty bucks?”
CHAPTER
10
FRANKLIN WAS IN a good mood Wednesday morning and he didn’t care who knew it. He was blowing his alphorn and daydreaming of Swiss landscapes and majestic condors while his dog howled. He would not have cared if Mr. Allspice was home, but he knew that he was not. He had watched him leave at 8:30 that morning. That crabby bastard was probably up ten times during the night checking on the porch light, thought Franklin.
He set down his horn and went out into the breezeway to check his mail. In the street he watched a tiny lady in a flowered dress step into a blue Ford Taurus and speed away. He also noticed a little boy in a green T-shirt, strawberry hair atop his giant head, choking back tears as he plucked the mangled handle of his red wagon out of the shrubs. Franklin grabbed his mail, and Mr. Allspice’s Buffalo News, and strolled whistling back into his apartment.
On the front page sidebar was a teaser that read: Lackawanna Fire Kills One, see B1. Franklin opened the paper to the Local Section. There on page one above the fold was a colour photograph of the decimated barn. The headline above it read: Three-Alarm Fire In Lackawanna Kills One. He scanned the article.
Lackawanna – A late night barn fire Tuesday blazed into the early morning hours, claiming the life of one man in this suburb south of Buffalo. Fire departments from three local townships responded to the blaze at 340 Old Post Road that investigators have ruled as “suspicious” …
Albert Olivetti, 63, originally of Smithtown, Long Island, suffered fatal third-degree burns …
“Right now we are not certain of the circumstances,” said Erie County Sheriff Fred McNally. “All I can say is that it is an open investigation …”
Erie County Coroner Robert Fields … autopsy results …
Mr. Olivetti is survived by a daughter, Anna Bella Burton, of Phoenix, AZ and two granddaughters …
Franklin did not like what he was reading: “ruled suspicious,” “open investigation,” “autopsy results.” He flopped down onto his orange chair and tried to reason it out. Of course it’s suspicious, he thought. All fires are suspicious before they are ruled accidental. If it’s suspicious, then it has to be an open investigation. Besides, the truck is missing and they have to find that before they can wrap things up.
Neither of those problems lead back to me. And as far as the autopsy, I watched that guy burn to a crisp with my own eyes.
Franklin thumbed through his mail and realized he had a new problem to deal with, a serious one. Today was Wednesday and there was no letter from Bernard. His brother had not missed a letter on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday in four years. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
CHAPTER
11
BURT WALNUT DELIVERED two, short wraps with his knuckle on Sheriff Fred McNally’s open office door. Fred was on the telephone and motioned for Burt to come in and have a seat. Fred hung up the phone.
“How’d you sleep last night, Burt?” asked Fred.
“Got in pretty late. Was that Bob Fields you were talking to?” asked Burt.
“No. It was a town council member. People are concerned that this Olivetti barn fire might have been arson, and therefore homicide. What do you think?”
“I think they might be right,” said Burt. “Have you gotten that autopsy report from Bob Fi
elds yet this morning?”
“He says I’ll have it this afternoon. After lunch.”
“After you left this morning I spent an hour or so with your deputies snooping around Al Olivetti’s personal affects. Did you know he owned rental property in the city?”
Fred opened a manila folder on his desk. “One unit at 559 Potomac, and one at 100 Garner.”
“Have you sent a deputy up to ask some questions around there yet?”
“Not yet,” said Fred. “I have to make contact this morning with the Buffalo PD and get things coordinated.”
“Have you heard anything about that mysterious Chevy pickup?”
“Are you worried I forgot how to do my job, you old dog?” asked Fred with a smirk. “Why don’t you tell me whether that fire was arson or accidental.”
“I got a hunch you’re going to find that fire was set. I think that Olivetti fella was dead before it started,” said Burt Walnut. “I never known a fella to burn to death in one place unless he was a Buddhist monk. This Italian fella wasn’t moonlighting as a Buddhist monk, was he?”
“I can look into it, but I don’t think so,” said Fred with a chuckle.
Burt Walnut stood up and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m thinking I might go up to the city for some ice cream this morning.”
“Is that so?” said Fred. “There wouldn’t happen to be any ice cream parlours around 559 Potomac and 100 Garner, would there?”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” said Burt Walnut with a smile.
“Give me a call after lunchtime and I’ll tell you what Bob Fields had to say in his autopsy report,” said Fred.
“I’ll call if I’m feeling lonely and need somebody to talk to,” said Burt, “but I doubt you’re gonna tell me much I don’t already know. I would like to learn how the poor fella did die, though.” Burt sauntered out of Fred’s office and gave him a backhanded wave over his left shoulder.
Fred sat for a half-minute thumping his pen on his desk, then dialed the phone. “Helen, this is Sheriff McNally, is Bob available to talk? Uh huh. I see. Well, please tell him to call me the minute he’s done with that Olivetti autopsy. Thank you, sugar.”
CHAPTER
12
THE GREY, STEEL hydraulic door swung open with a groan of air as Franklin entered the Buffalo Psychiatric Centre on Elmwood Avenue Wednesday afternoon. The fluorescent lights droned above his head while his rubber-soled sandals chirped along the polished white hallway. The walls were painted a sane yellow and the smell was more sterile and antiseptic than a normal hospital. No wonder Bernard requested that Franklin never visit. This place is creepy, he thought. The receptionist was a bored overweight woman with a poor complexion who looked as forlorn as the building.
“I’m here to visit a resident,” Franklin said.
“I’m sorry?” said the receptionist, phrasing her statement as a question.
“That’s ok,” said Franklin. “I’m here to see Franklin.”
“First name?” asked the receptionist.
“First name Franklin.”
“Ok, last name then.”
“Last name Franklin.”
“Look sir, we don’t have a Franklin Franklin. I know that right off the top of my head.”
“No, I am Franklin Franklin. I thought you needed my name for your log book or whatever.”
“Well I will, but first we need to figure out which resident you are here to see, Mr. Franklin Franklin,” said the receptionist with an air of sarcasm.
“Bernard. Bernard Franklin.”
“Can I assume you are a relative?” asked the receptionist.
“You should never assume. But yes, he’s my brother.”
The receptionist shook her head and performed a few deft strokes on her computer keyboard. She picked up the phone and pushed one button, then mumbled something that sounded to Franklin like ‘Jews have brown hair.’ She asked him to sit in the waiting area. Moments later a hospital administrator appeared through one of the oak double doors that led to the residents’ rooms. Franklin thought it was nice that they called them residents, even though they were all there because they were crazy. The administrator was young and very attractive. She introduced herself as Sally Baker and ushered Franklin into a private room.
“Mr. Franklin. May I call you Franklin?”
“Yes,” said Franklin.
“Franklin, I am afraid I have to deliver some very difficult news to you.”
“Bernard’s dead?” asked Franklin.
Sally Baker was completely thrown off her well-rehearsed rhythm. “Yes. Bernard’s dead,” she said. “Did you already know?”
“No. You bring me into a private room, you tell me you have to deliver difficult news. I couldn’t imagine what else you might be preparing to tell me after that setup.”
“I am so sorry for your loss, Franklin. Bernard died yesterday morning around 11:30 of his brain tumour.
“Brain tumour?” asked Franklin.
“You did know he was sick? Bernard was tested six months ago after complaining of increasingly painful headaches and dizziness. He was told the tumour was inoperable.”
“Bernard never told me diddly squat,” said Franklin. “He just sent me envelopes full of fingernails. Why didn’t the hospital contact me?”
“Bernard has always been a voluntary resident here. He was here of his own volition. Our rules are completely different for contacting next of kin when the resident is not a ward of the state. Only in the event of serious injury or death.”
“Or non-payment,” offered Franklin.
“Right,” agreed Sally Baker. “Or non-payment. Which was never a problem with Bernard. After Bernard died, we tried contacting you by telephone but …”
“I don’t have a phone,” said Franklin.
“Well, yes, we discovered that. We also sent a hospital representative out to your home yesterday but they got lost because there is no such place as Garner Street in the city of Buffalo.”
I can thank the multi-pierced lady at the DMV for that one, thought Franklin. He was silent for a moment. “A brain tumour, huh? So Bernard wasn’t crazy after all. He had something growing inside his head and nobody found it until it was too late. Did you know he was diagnosed by Dr. Sage Mennox himself?”
“The TV Guru guy?” gushed Sally. “Oh, I just love him. Have you read any of his books?”
“No,” said Franklin.
“He’s a little unconventional,” said Sally. “For instance, we don’t refer to our patients as crazy. But when he talks about building a body that is mentally fit and physically strong, I think he’s right on target. I’ve read all his books and I can say that since I started working in a mental hospital—and this is just between you and me—every one of our residents is either unbalanced, unfocused or impure; sometimes all three. Your brother Bernard may have been unbalanced, but he was free to come and go as he pleased.”
“He was?” said Franklin in astonishment.
“Of course. This is what I’m trying to tell you. Our policy is completely different for volunteer residents. Bernard would take a long walk every morning and return around lunchtime.”
Franklin’s bewildered stare was focused on something a thousand miles away. He rested his elbow in his cupped hand and tugged at his upper lip. “I would like to see Bernard now,” he said.
“Of course,” said Sally Baker. “He’s in the morgue. But first I have some paperwork for you to fill out, and I need to give you this.” She removed a white #10 envelope from the pocket of her plum-coloured silk jacket. “It’s addressed to you from Bernard.”
“What’s in it?” asked Franklin. More fingernails, he guessed.
“I don’t know,” said Sally Baker. “It’s addressed only to you.”
“Oh,” said Franklin. “Silly me. I just thought it might be a good policy to open crazy people’s mail. But now that I know Bernard wasn’t even crazy, and could come and go as he pleased, you’ll have to forgi
ve me for asking such a stupid question.”
CHAPTER
13
BURT WALNUT PARKED his silver 1999 Dodge Ram in front of 100 Garner and killed the engine. His visit to the rental property at 559 Potomac had been uneventful. The building was a beige, clapboard, two-storey house with one apartment on each floor. The upper apartment was vacant and in the middle of some renovations. The sink and the toilet had been removed and there was a cardboard box filled with bolts and pipe-fittings on top of a plastic sheet in the middle of the living room. There was also a tool belt, some plumber’s wrenches and a large white bucket of plaster.
The ground floor apartment was the residence of seventy-nine-year-old grandmother of fourteen, Emma Stepnoski. She told Burt that she had heard Mr. Olivetti banging around upstairs early Tuesday morning. She said she knew it was him because of all the profanities. “Those Italians have filthy mouths,” said Emma. She didn’t know where he was headed, but she watched him leave in his truck at around 11:00 a.m.
That information had taken Burt all of seven minutes to solicit. However, he felt obliged to stay another hour drinking coffee, eating fresh-baked lemon cakes and looking at photos of Emma’s army of grandchildren.
On the porch at 100 Garner, Burt Walnut met Tommy Balls on his way to work at the 2-4 store. Tommy was wearing a black Korn T-shirt, green fatigue pants and black canvas Converse high tops. The volume in his headphones was loud enough for Burt to hear the unpleasant crackle of modern music through the outside door. Tommy was also high as a kite.
Tommy noticed the old fireman standing on the porch as he checked his mail in the breezeway. Burt nodded with a neighbourly smile and motioned for Tommy to remove his headphones so he could respond to friendly conversation. Tommy complied, but the first stages of pothead paranoia were beginning to creep in. This guy on the porch looks like a cop, Tommy thought. Or worse, someone from my mom’s church. He remained in the breezeway with the door closed.