by Sara Blaedel
She turned to Artie. “Was he sick?” The bump on Artie’s nose—had it been broken?—made it appear too big for the rest of his face: high cheekbones, slightly squinty eyes, beard stubble definitely due to a relaxed attitude toward shaving, rather than wanting to be in style.
“Not that I know of, no. But there could have been things Paul didn’t tell me about, for sure.”
His tone told her it wouldn’t have been the first secret Paul had kept from him.
“The doctor said his heart just stopped,” he continued. “Nothing dramatic happened.”
“Did he have a family?” She looked out the side window. The old hearse rode well. Heavy, huge, swaying lightly. A tall pickup drove up beside them; a man with a full beard looked down and nodded at her. She looked away quickly. She didn’t care for any sympathetic looks, though he, of course, couldn’t know the curtained-off back of the hearse was empty.
“He was married, you know,” Artie said. Immediately Ilka sensed he didn’t like being the one to fill her in on her father’s private affairs. She nodded to herself; of course he didn’t. What did she expect?
“And he had two daughters. That was it, apart from Mary Ann’s family, but I don’t know them. How much do you know about them?”
He knew very well that Ilka hadn’t had any contact with her father since he’d left Denmark. Or at least she assumed he knew. “Why has the family not signed what should be signed, so you can finish with his…estate?” She set the empty water bottle on the floor.
“They did sign their part of it. But that’s not enough, because you’re in the will, too. First the IRS—that’s our tax agency—must determine if he owes the government, and you must give them permission to investigate. If you don’t sign, they’ll freeze all the assets in the estate until everything is cleared up.”
Ilka’s shoulders slumped at the word “assets.” One thing that had kept her awake during the flight was her mother’s concern about her being stuck with a debt she could never pay. Maybe she would be detained; maybe she would even be thrown in jail.
“What are his daughters like?” she asked after they had driven for a while in silence.
For a few moments, he kept his eyes on the road; then he glanced at her and shrugged. “They’re nice enough, but I don’t really know them. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen them. Truth is, I don’t think either of them was thrilled about your father’s business.”
After another silence, Ilka said, “You should have called me when he died. I wish I had been at his funeral.”
Was that really true? Did she truly wish that? The last funeral she’d been to was her husband’s. He had collapsed from heart failure three years ago, at the age of fifty-two. She didn’t like death, didn’t like loss. But she’d already lost her father many years ago, so what difference would it have made watching him being lowered into the ground?
“At that time, I didn’t know about you,” Artie said. “Your name first came up when your father’s lawyer mentioned you.”
“Where is he buried?”
He stared straight ahead. Again, it was obvious he didn’t enjoy talking about her father’s private life. Finally, he said, “Mary Ann decided to keep the urn with his ashes at home. A private ceremony was held in the living room when the crematorium delivered the urn, and now it’s on the shelf above the fireplace.”
After a pause, he said, “You speak English well. Funny accent.”
Ilka explained distractedly that she had traveled in Australia for a year after high school.
The billboards along the freeway here advertised hotels, motels, and drive-ins for the most part. She wondered how there could be enough people to keep all these businesses going, given the countless offers from the clusters of signs on both sides of the road. “What about his new family? Surely they knew he had a daughter in Denmark?” She turned back to him.
“Nope!” He shook his head as he flipped the turn signal.
“He never told them he left his wife and seven-year-old daughter?” She wasn’t all that surprised.
Artie didn’t answer. Okay, Ilka thought. That takes care of that.
“I wonder what they think about me coming here.”
He shrugged. “I don’t really know, but they’re not going to lose anything. His wife has an inheritance from her wealthy parents, so she’s taken care of. The same goes for the daughters. And none of them had ever shown any interest in the funeral home.”
And what about their father? Ilka thought. Were they uninterested in him, too? But that was none of her business. She didn’t know them, knew nothing about their relationships with one another. And for that matter, she knew nothing about her father. Maybe his new family had asked about his life in Denmark, and maybe he’d given them a line of bullshit. But what the hell, he was thirty-nine when he left. Anyone could figure out he’d had a life before packing his weekend bag and emigrating.
Both sides of the freeway were green now. The landscape was starting to remind her of late summer in Denmark, with its green fields, patches of forest, flat land, large barns with the characteristic bowed roofs, and livestock. With a few exceptions, she felt like she could have been driving down the E45, the road between Copenhagen and Ålborg.
“Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” Artie asked.
She shook her head; it was a relief to have the awkward silence between them broken. And yet, before his hand reached the radio, she blurted out, “What was he like?”
He dropped his hand and smiled at her. “Your father was a decent guy, a really decent guy. In a lot of ways,” he added, disarmingly, “he was someone you could count on, and in other ways he was very much his own man. I always enjoyed working with him, but he was also my friend. People liked him; he was interested in their lives. That’s also why he was so good at talking to those who had just lost someone. He was empathetic. It feels empty, him not being around any longer.”
Ilka had to concentrate to follow along. Despite her year in Australia, it was difficult when people spoke English rapidly. “Was he also a good father?”
Artie turned thoughtfully and looked out his side window. “I really can’t say. I didn’t know him when the girls were small.” He kept glancing at the four lanes to their left. “But if you’re asking me if your father was a family man, my answer is, yes and no. He was very much in touch with his family, but he probably put more of himself into Jensen Funeral Home.”
“How long did you know him?”
She watched him calculate. “I moved back in 1998. We ran into each other at a local saloon, this place called Oh Dennis!, and we started talking. The victim of a traffic accident had just come in to the funeral home. The family wanted to put the young woman in an open coffin, but nobody would have wanted to see her face. So I offered to help. It’s the kind of stuff I’m good at. Creating, shaping. Your father did the embalming, but I reconstructed her face. Her mother supplied us with a photo, and I did a sculpture. And I managed to make the woman look like herself, even though there wasn’t much to work with. Later your father offered me a job, and I grabbed the chance. There’s not much work for an artist in Racine, so reconstructions of the deceased was as good as anything.”
He turned off the freeway. “Later I got a degree, because you have to have a license to work in the undertaker business.”
* * *
They reached Racine Street and waited to make a left turn. They had driven the last several miles in silence. The streets were deserted, the shops closed. It was getting dark, and Ilka realized she was at the point where exhaustion and jet lag trumped the hunger gnawing inside her. They drove by an empty square and a nearly deserted saloon. Oh Dennis!, the place where Artie had met her father. She spotted the lake at the end of the broad streets to the right, and that was it. The town was dead. Abandoned, closed. She was surprised there were no people or life.
“We’ve booked a room for you at the Harbourwalk Hotel. Tomorrow we can sit down and go through your father’s pap
ers. Then you can start looking through his things.”
Ilka nodded. All she wanted right now was a warm bath and a bed.
“Sorry, we have no reservations for Miss Jensen. And none for the Jensen Funeral Home, either. We don’t have a single room available.”
The receptionist drawled apology after apology. It sounded to Ilka as if she had too much saliva in her mouth.
Ilka sat in a plush armchair in the lobby as Artie asked if the room was reserved in his name. “Or try Sister Eileen O’Connor,” he suggested.
The receptionist apologized again as her long fingernails danced over the computer keyboard. The sound was unnaturally loud, a bit like Ilka’s mother’s knitting needles tapping against each other.
Ilka shut down. She could sit there and sleep; it made absolutely no difference to her. Back in Denmark, it was five in the morning, and she hadn’t slept in twenty-two hours.
“I’m sorry,” Artie said. “You’re more than welcome to stay at my place. I can sleep on the sofa. Or we can fix up a place for you to sleep at the office, and we’ll find another hotel in the morning.”
Ilka sat up in the armchair. “What’s that sound?”
Artie looked bewildered. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like a phone ringing in the next room.”
He listened for a moment before shrugging. “I can’t hear anything.”
The sound came every ten seconds. It was as if something were hidden behind the reception desk or farther down the hotel foyer. Ilka shook her head and looked at him. “You don’t need to sleep on the sofa. I can sleep somewhere at the office.”
She needed to be alone, and the thought of a strange man’s bedroom didn’t appeal to her.
“That’s fine.” He grabbed her small suitcase. “It’s only five minutes away, and I know we can find some food for you, too.”
The black hearse was parked just outside the main entrance of the hotel, but that clearly wasn’t bothering anyone. Though the hotel was apparently fully booked, Ilka hadn’t seen a single person since they’d arrived.
Night had fallen, and her eyelids closed as soon as she settled into the car. She jumped when Artie opened the door and poked her with his finger. She hadn’t even realized they had arrived. They were parked in a large, empty lot. The white building was an enormous box with several attic windows reflecting the moonlight back into the thick darkness. Tall trees with enormous crowns hovered over Ilka when she got out of the car.
They reached the door, beside which was a sign: JENSEN FUNERAL HOME. WELCOME. Pillars stood all the way across the broad porch, with well-tended flower beds in front of it, but the darkness covered everything else.
Artie led her inside the high-ceilinged hallway and turned the light on. He pointed to a stairway at the other end. Ilka’s feet sank deep in the carpet; it smelled dusty, with a hint of plastic and instant coffee.
“Would you like something to drink? Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich.”
“No, thank you.” She just wanted him to leave.
He led her up the stairs, and when they reached a small landing, he pointed at a door. “Your father had a room in there, and I think we can find some sheets. We have a cot we can fold out and make up for you.”
Ilka held her hand up. “If there is a bed in my father’s room, I can just sleep in it.” She nodded when he asked if she was sure. “What time do you want to meet tomorrow?”
“How about eight thirty? We can have breakfast together.”
She had no idea what time it was, but as long as she got some sleep, she guessed she’d be fine. She nodded.
Ilka stayed outside on the landing while Artie opened the door to her father’s room and turned on the light. She watched him walk over to a dresser and pull out the bottom drawer. He grabbed some sheets and a towel and tossed them on the bed; then he waved her in.
The room’s walls were slanted. An old white bureau stood at the end of the room, and under the window, which must have been one of those she’d noticed from the parking lot, was a desk with drawers on both sides. The bed was just inside the room and to the left. There was also a small coffee table and, at the end of the bed, a narrow built-in closet.
A dark jacket and a tie lay draped over the back of the desk chair. The desk was covered with piles of paper; a briefcase leaned against the closet. But there was nothing but sheets on the bed.
“I’ll find a comforter and a pillow,” Artie said, accidentally grazing her as he walked by.
Ilka stepped into the room. A room lived in, yet abandoned. A feeling suddenly stirred inside her, and she froze. He was here. The smell. A heavy yet pleasant odor she recognized from somewhere deep inside. She’d had no idea this memory existed. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to when she was very young, the feeling of being held. Tobacco. Sundays in the car, driving out to Bellevue. Feeling secure, knowing someone close was taking care of her. Lifting her up on a lap. Making her laugh. The sound of hooves pounding the ground, horses at a racetrack. Her father’s concentration as he chain-smoked, captivated by the race. His laughter.
She sat down on the bed, not hearing what Artie said when he laid the comforter and pillow beside her, then walked out and closed the door.
Her father had been tall; at least that’s how she remembered him. She could see to the end of the world when she sat on his shoulders. They did fun things together. He took her to an amusement park and bought her ice cream while he tried out the slot machines, to see if they were any good. Her mother didn’t always know when they went there. He also took her out to a centuries-old amusement park in the forest north of Copenhagen. They stopped at Peter Liep’s, and she drank soda while he drank beer. They sat outside and watched the riders pass by, smelling horseshit and sweat when the thirsty riders dismounted and draped the reins over the hitching post. He had loved horses. On the other hand, she couldn’t remember the times—the many times, according to her mother—when he didn’t come home early enough to stick his head in her room and say good night. Not having enough money for food because he had gambled his wages away at the track was something else she didn’t recall—but her mother did.
Ilka opened her eyes. Her exhaustion was gone, but she still felt dizzy. She walked over to the desk and reached for a photo in a wide mahogany frame. A trotter, its mane flying out to both sides at the finishing line. In another photo, a trotter covered by a red victory blanket stood beside a sulky driver holding a trophy high above his head, smiling for the camera. There were several more horse photos, and a ticket to Lunden hung from a window hasp. She grabbed it. Paul Jensen. Charlottenlund Derby 1982. The year he left them.
Ilka didn’t realize at the time that he had left. All she knew was that one morning he wasn’t there, and her mother was crying but wouldn’t tell her why. When she arrived home from school that afternoon, her mother was still crying. And as she remembered it, her mother didn’t stop crying for a long time.
She had been with her father at that derby in 1982. She picked up a photo leaning against the windowsill, then sat down on the bed. “Ilka and Peter Kjærsgaard” was written on the back of the photo. Ilka had been five years old when her father took her to the derby for the first time. Back then, her mother had gone along. She vaguely remembered going to the track and meeting the famous jockey, but suddenly the odors and sounds were crystal clear. She closed her eyes.
“You can give them one if you want,” the man had said as he handed her a bucket filled with carrots, many more than her mother had in bags back in their kitchen. The bucket was heavy, but Ilka wanted to show them how big she was, so she hooked the handle with her arm and walked over to one of the stalls.
She smiled proudly at a red-shirted sulky driver passing by as he was fastening his helmet. The track was crowded, but during the races, few people were allowed in the barn. They were, though. She and her father.
She pulled her hand back, frightened, when the horse in the stall whinnied and pulled against the chain. It
snorted and pounded its hoof on the floor. The horse was so tall. Carefully she held the carrot out in the palm of her hand, as her father had taught her to do. The horse snatched the sweet treat, gently tickling her.
Her father stood with a group of men at the end of the row of stalls. They laughed loudly, slapping one another’s shoulders. A few of them drank beer from bottles. Ilka sat down on a bale of hay. Her father had promised her a horse when she was a bit older. One of the grooms came over and asked if she would like a ride behind the barn; he was going to walk one of the horses to warm it up. She wanted to, if her father would let her. He did.
“Look at me, Daddy!” Ilka cried. “Look at me.” The horse had stopped, clearly preferring to eat grass rather than walk. She kicked gently to get it going, but her legs were too short to do any good.
Her father pulled himself away from the other men and stood at the barn entrance. He waved, and Ilka sat up proudly. The groom asked if he should let go of the reins so she could ride by herself, and though she didn’t really love the idea, she nodded. But when he dropped the reins and she turned around to show her father how brave she was, he was back inside with the others.
Ilka stood up and put the photo back. She could almost smell the tar used by the racetrack farrier on horse hooves. She used to sit behind a pane of glass with her mother and follow the races, while her father stood over at the finish line. But then her mother stopped going along.
She picked up another photo from the windowsill. She was standing on a bale of hay, toasting with a sulky driver. Fragments of memories flooded back as she studied herself in the photo. Her father speaking excitedly with the driver, his expression as the horses were hitched to the sulkies. And the way he said, “We-e-e-ell, shall we…?” right before a race. Then he would hold his hand out, and they would walk down to the track.
She wondered why she could remember these things, when she had forgotten most of what had happened back then.
