by Mark Teppo
Listen. The wolf, how he howls.
DEATH
The curtain falls, and the shade of your grandmother floats from stage left. She directs you to stage left where a pale-faced boy—your nephew, actually, the one who died in the lake—takes the tools of office from you. A nimble-fingered phantom lifts your crown. You try to look at its face, but it slips away, stealing the heavy earrings from your ears.
The stage manager—isn’t that your wayward uncle, the drunk who always interrupted grace by rattling coins in his pocket?—holds up seven fingers. One of them is missing a digit.
Your grandmother’s shade guides you to the warped red door of the costume room. Hurry now, she says, opening the door with the Old Country magic, there isn’t much time.
Off comes the heavy costume of the first act, dumped unceremoniously on the floor. The costume room is cold, colder still when you unzip the skinsuit and wriggle out. Once the flesh is off, the rest falls out of your body cavity like overripe fruit from withered trees.
Don’t worry about the eyes, your grandmother says, they always roll under the cabinet.
Her whispery voice, a faint echo of the boisterous laughter you remember from childhood, tells you where the bin of new eyes is. After the eyes, everything else is easy, though the suit is harder to zip up than to take off. I’m not a contortionist, you complain, and your grandmother snorts a streamer of pale smoke, but she doesn’t speak of the faery-eyed boy, the one from that first year at school.
In the backless wardrobe, new costumes swing their hangers. You push the red button and the endless track clatters forward—rat-ta-kak-a-rat-ta-kak-a—a rainbow of history in taffeta and fur, silk and leather, cotton and lace. Somewhat randomly—for the future is not yet set, is it?—you let go of the button and pick an outfit.
This is your only choice.
You put on the black pants, the white shirt with needlepoint starfish, and the purple vest inlaid with mother-of-pearl and coral. In the pale sack of accessories: silver dolphins for cufflinks, a leather belt inlaid with silver waves, black-rimmed glasses, a brown wig, and a long, brown mustache.
The stage manager—your old drunk uncle—is speaking into his headset, and he gives you the once-over as you approach. When he presses his thumb in the space between your lip and your nose, making sure the mustache is firmly attached, you smell the memory of cinnamon on his hands. You can’t help but recall the last Christmas you saw him: standing next to the tree, half-turned toward the fireplace, pouring cheap whisky from a flask into his mug of eggnog.
You miss him more than you knew.
You can hear the orchestra reaching a crescendo. The curtain is about to rise on act two. Your grandmother busses your check with a spectral kiss, and your nephew waves as you hustle out to center stage. Your uncle is counting down with both hands—ten, nine, eight—and then, with a grimace, he stops.
He retrieves a long-stemmed flower from the wings. With a quick snap of his hands, he breaks off the long stem of the lily, and threads the flower through the boutonniere on your vest. Always wear a lily, he says, so they will recognize you.
The curtain rises, and he hesitates long enough to press his thumb over your lip again. This time, he’s marking you like the angels do. So everyone will know that you have been reborn.
SEQUENCE
The pistol brushes against my cheek as I switch off the light and step from the bathroom. I jerk away from its touch as a gloved hand grabs my wrist and pulls me into my own bedroom. My eyes adjust slowly—bringing the white into focus, sending the black into shadow. I see my wife, a dark shape sprawled on the bed. Why isn’t she moving?
My assailant twists my arm behind my back, and when I try to pull away, my other arm is grabbed too. The hands about my wrists are big and strong, covered with leather gloves. I’m pushed roughly toward the upholstered chair we have in the bedroom. It has been moved, placed near the foot of the bed, and I am forced to sit on it. A second set of hands has a rope, a thick one with a rough hemp like the ones I used on the boat, and they tie it around my left wrist. I feel them weaving it through the open back of the chair, across my lap, and then they loop it around my neck once before tying it again around my other wrist. When they let go, I try to get out of the chair, but my motion tightens the rope about my neck.
Joan! Christ, Joan, why aren’t you moving? I can see better now; I can see her wrists dangling from the headboard. Her hands are so pale.
—The safe.— The voice is thick, like gravel rattling in the bottom of a cardboard box.
—What safe?—
He hits me. Not hard enough to really hurt me, but hard enough to get my attention. He is the one with the big hands. He is wearing black clothes and a ski mask.
—It’s a combination safe. A metal box, dial on the front.— The other one, the one knows something about knots and rope, is a woman. She sits on my lap, blocking my view of the bed, and taps me on the chest with the barrel of the pistol. She’s wearing a mask too, but she hasn’t put her hair up and I can see the blonde ends sticking out the back. She has blue eyes—like the sky, like Joan—and she smells like gardenias. Like Joan. —You know the box we’re talking about. Don’t play dumb. —
She strokes the side of my face, and I notice her gloves are softer. Calfskin leather—driving gloves, perhaps. I don’t like her tone of voice or her touch, but I can’t move much before the rope starts tightening.
—We know it is in the study. Tell us where it is.—
She raises the gun to my face and presses it against the bridge of my nose. It’s a CZ75 knock-off, modeled after the Czechoslovakian design, but made somewhere else. It’s my father’s gun; he bought it back in the 1970s. I fired it for the first time when I was twelve. At a Coke bottle, no less.
—Nice gun. Well maintained. We found the ammo, too.—
I can see that it’s ready to fire.
The safe. I tell them where the safe is. In the study. Behind the Warhol.
She asks if it is an original, a knowing smirk curling her lips.
I’m tempted to lie.
—What’s the combination?— Gravel voice wants to know.
She pushes with the pistol, and my eyes water. I tell them the numbers.
—There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? See how much easier things are when you cooperate?—
I can see one of Joan’s legs behind the woman on my lap. Rope runs from her ankle to the wooden post at the bottom of the bed frame. Her legs have been tied too. I say something I shouldn’t.
It’s her turn to hit me, though she does it with the butt of the pistol. I taste metal in my mouth, and before I can spit anything out, her hands are on my face, lifting my chin. She’s going to put the pistol in my mouth—
My pager goes off.
She screws the barrel of the gun into the side of my head instead, painfully pushing it against my skull. —What the fuck is that?—
I’m looking for the telltale red light, the tiny signal that may be my salvation. There. On the nightstand. I can see the reflection off the wall. The pager has fallen behind the clock radio. It must have fallen when . . .
The pistol, grinding against my head. —Answer the question!—
I’m a doctor. I’m on call. It has to be the hospital. I have to answer it. They’re expecting me to answer. Lives could be at stake.
—Bullshit.—
—He’s right.— It’s gravel voice. —There’s a bunch of diplomas on the walls in the study.—
I have to call the hospital. It can’t wait. I never miss a page.
She hits me with the pistol again, trying to get me to shut up. There is definitely blood in my mouth this time, and I spit it at her. When she reacts, her weight sliding back on my lap, I throw myself to the side. She jumps off, and the sudden disappearance of her weight means I tilt too far. I watch Joan slide toward the ceiling as I crash onto my side. My shoulder hurts and the rope is very tight around my neck. I can barely breathe, but I try to speak. I try to mak
e a deal.
I’ll tell them where the other safe is. The real one. But I have to call the hospital first. I have to check in.
She stands over me, the pistol pointed at my head. —Tell us first.—
The hospital is a twenty minute drive. Even I call now, they won’t be expecting me for at least fifteen minutes. More than enough time. The call first. The call for the safe.
Joan. I can see her silk pajama top crumbled on the floor. Joan, honey, everything is going to be okay. I just have to fix this one thing.
He grabs the back of the chair and sets me upright again, and she puts the pistol against my head. —The other safe.—
I look at Joan, and then I look at her. Get my pager first. I stay firm. It’s the only way.
He knocks the clock radio aside, carelessly, like he’s unaware that it is there, and he fumbles for the pager. He shows me the number. It’s the ward’s duty nurse. I tell him where the phone is, and he brings it in. She takes it from him, and angrily punches in the numbers. —Keep it short.— She holds the phone up.
My throat is dry and lips hurt. The phone rings twice, and is then answered by the duty nurse. I identify myself, and she starts rattling off details of a patient. I glance up at the woman holding the phone, and interrupt the duty nurse, telling her she did the right thing and that I’ll be right in.
The woman snatches the phone away, pushing the disconnect button quickly, but it’s too late. The words are out of my mouth. The nurse heard me.
I close my eyes as the gun comes back, pressing hard against the crown of my forehead. —Son of a bitch. We should just kill him now.—
—We have fifteen minutes.— Gravel voice is calm. —Tell us where it is.—
I lick my lips, and when the pressure of the gun eases, I open my eyes carefully. I look toward the bed, toward Joan.
—Tell us where it is, and we’ll let you go. Drive straight to the hospital. We’ll dial this number in fifteen minutes —
Joan?
I tell them where the other safe is: in the kitchen. It’s behind the spice rack. A false panel in the wall. The combination is the reverse of the other one.
I stare at Joan. She’s watching me.
I’m sorry, Joan. I’m so very sorry.
I drive fast, and I make it to the hospital in less than fifteen minutes. I go straight through the ER entrance, and rush to the duty nurse’s station. The duty nurse stares at me, stares at the bruises around my mouth, at the dried blood on my lips, and the dark burn around my throat. “Has anyone called?” I ask, pointing at the phone on her desk.
“No,” she says. “Just you.”
“Someone will be calling soon,” I tell her, looking around for another phone. There’s one at the next station, and I lean over and scoop up the receiver. I dial 9-11. “Burglars,” I tell her as I wait. “At my house. They’ve got my wife. They’ve got Joan.”
My voice is very steady.
The nurse stares at her phone, realizing who will probably be calling in the next few minutes.
“I hope it’s not too late,” I say as my phone clicks and the local police emergency operator comes on the line.
Joan. I think of her wide blue eyes, her parted lips. The taste of her lips is strong in my mouth.
“9-11. What is your situation?”
My throat aches.
Once more. This one’s for real.
I start at the beginning.
UPON DRINKING A HALF GLASS
OF THE OLDE SATURNINE TOADE
“A picture, of course, will inadequately capture the chocolate color of the beer or the caramel texture of its foam.” Detective Inspector Phreniwit leans over the glass. “And, being a visual record, it will most certainly fail to note the scent—“ he inhales, “—that lascivious aroma of wheat, slightly soured by the sun, and the faint, lingering spice of warm pudding. It is the travesty of our profession that we rely upon photographic records. That we allow such still lives to be our sole record of a scene.”
Detective Constable Thomas Merriweather scratches the side of his nose. “We really should wait outside for the crime lab. Let them do their job.” He shifts nervously. The dead man, chin and chest ribboned with crimson streaks of dried vomit, appears to be staring at him as he fidgets, watching him with dulled sapphire eyes. “You know, leave the scene unperturbed.”
“Has Death not perturbed this scene already?” Using a tiny penlight, Phreniwit examines the dead man’s eyes. Merriweather can’t imagine for what purpose. The pupils aren’t going to contract. They’re open and fixed. “Can our offense be measured on the same scale?” The light flickers into the dark cavern of the corpse’s gaping mouth where it takes on a red cast, as if there are unholy fires burning inside the body, as if a satanic mine has been dug deep into the stomach and intestines. “Is it not tantamount to our purpose in life—in being here, now—that we remember these aspects of the scene which will be lost once the record becomes the stenographical shorthand of your report and the digitized collection of photographs taken?”
“I’ll be sure to make note of your olfactory impressions in my report,” Merriweather promises. All he can smell is the rotten stench of the man’s guts in his lap. Merriweather has been on the homicide rotation for eighteen weeks and this is the first time he has seen the insides of a man.
Phreniwit shakes his head as he plays the light down the red and black vein of internalia. “From your tone, I fear you fail to comprehend the importance of this brief time we have alone with the deceased. As we stand here, we influence the chemical trails in the air with our exhalations, we drop minute particles of dust and skin that affect the material composition of the scene. Are you not aware of the pandemonium that will befall this scene when the locust of the crime lab arrive? How little will be left when they are gone. How little we will know of the last moment of this man’s life.”
He flicks the light towards the end table, illuminating the dark icon on the beer bottle. The solitary toad, pointing towards the sky. Other than a short phrase—“solve et coagula”—written in an arc over the pointed nose of the toad, the label is blank.
The light moves to the glass. “His final thought lies there. As he took his last sip and put the glass down, did he think the glass was half empty or half full?”
“Ah, he was probably puking his guts out.”
Phreniwit swivels the light to Merriweather’s face. “Was he? Would you have the presence of mind to set your glass down carefully—in the center of the coaster, no less—if you were exsanguinating and eructating?
“No. No, I guess not. I would have dropped the glass, probably.” Merriweather looks away, his hand raised in front of his face. “Tossed it, most likely.”
“But he didn’t. He set it down.” Phreniwit turns the penlight off and hides it in his coat. Stepping away from the corpse, he adjusts his cuffs. “So, DC Merriweather, I hear a cacophony of boots upon the stair. Our time with this corpse is finished.”
Rough hands grapple with the closed door to the dead man’s library. Voices, full of argumentative distemper, percolate through the wooden panel.
“What is your impression of this man’s final thought? Look at the glass. Half full or half empty? Your answer could very well determine whether we classify this death as a murder or as a suicide.”
*
In a Sainsbury’s not far from the dead man’s house, Merriweather finds Phreniwit in the beer and wine aisle. The left side of the older man’s mustache has lost its curl and, to Merriweather’s eye, he appears to have neither slept nor shaved in the twenty-four hours since they were summoned to 14 Groveshire Lane by Mrs. Covey, housekeeper to the late Albert Bledsoe. “Ah, Thomas,” Phreniwit breathes heavily on the younger man, an effusively jubilant exhalation that carries on it the stink of cigarettes and onions in addition to the fetid effluvium of hops. “You have found me.”
“You are drunk, sir.” Merriweather decides a blunt approach is best. “And it is not yet noon.”
&n
bsp; “I have been doing research, Thomas. The microbrew community is fiercely passionate, though continually parched, about hops and malt extracts and vacuum seals. I have learned about fermenting, Thomas, the process by which—”
“I know what fermenting is, sir.”
“Ah, but do you know what the sediment is called that precipitates at the bottom of the fermenter? The ‘trub,’ Thomas.” Phreniwit raises a finger and tries to focus on it. His voice drops to a whisper. “The ‘trub.’”
“The Coroner’s report came back this morning.” Merriweather ignores the wandering finger. “Mr. Bledsoe died from lead poisoning.”
“Saturnism,” DI Phreniwit murmurs. “And the beer, the Saturnine Toad he was drinking. Was there lead in it?”
“No, sir. In fact, the alcohol content was rather low. Barely 3%.”
“How very unusual. Especially for a dunkelweissen.” Tapping a finger against his flush lips, Phreniwit seems lost in thought. “The Germans who, of course, must add sturm und drang to everything, make a dark version of their own light beer. Is that not emblematic of their entire philosophical oeuvre?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not familiar with German philosophy. Or their exports. Unless you are talking about cars.”
“Of course not. We weren’t paying attention in 1938. Why should we now?” Phreniwit finds a crumpled napkin in the pocket of his overcoat. A series of tiny diagrams are crowded onto one side, squeezed tightly against lines of indecipherable script. He squints at the writing, his lips moving around the words.
“Sir, I’ve been making some calls. I can’t find a single distributor for this beer.”
“Yes, I have come to a similar conclusion about its emphereality.” Phreniwit lays a hand flat against the cold surface of the glass door. “There are, as best I can enumerate this afternoon, one hundred and thirty-six different varieties of beer currently on sale at this mercantile establishment. None of which carries the sigil of a dark amphibian. The Waitrose at Kings’ Crossing does not carry such a beverage, nor the Marks and Spencer’s in Urnbridge Square. I, of course, would not deign to allow my shadow to cross the threshold of such a market that dares to malign the language by appending the word “hyper” to its designation, but—”
