by Thomas Cater
We chose a table a discrete distance away from the other happy couple. A lady in an apron peeked around the corner, discovered our presence in the hall and vanished into the kitchen. A few seconds later, she swept into the dining room. She was wearing a formal dress, a lot of costume jewelry and bearing two coffee cups. She carried one arm in a sling.
“Cocktails?” She asked in English, but with a delicate accent.
I nodded, uncertain how well my high school French had survived the decades.
“Been fending off attacks by the local bourgeoisies?” I asked, indicating her bandaged arm.
She raised the disabled limb.
“I slipped on the stairs,” she said, “a fracture.”
I nodded. “Too bad; I sympathize. I’ve broken a few bones myself.”
She shrugged. “It is not important. I’m as good with one as two.”
“I’ll bet,” I said and then wished I hadn’t.
Constance was casting blind eyes over the menu.
“See anything you like?” I said.
“Yes, lots of things,” she said, “I can’t decide.”
“Let’s leave it to the hostess. I’m sure she has a luncheon special,” I said, wondering if French restaurants followed local formats. “I’m too tired to make a decision right now, especially about food. Bring us whatever you’re serving for lunch.”
She nodded.
“I hope you like quiche.”
“Love it,” I said, although I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten it.
She vanished into the kitchen and I turned toward Connie, who was chewing on her lower lip.
“You like quiche?” I asked.
“Love it.” She mimicked, and closed the menu abruptly. “She’s pretty, isn’t she.” she commented.
I sensed some danger in the question and shrugged. “Getting a little long in the tooth, but easy to look at … from a distance.”
“Do you feel more comfortable around women your own age?” she asked.
I felt the hook go in, but she did it so artfully that I did not give it a second thought. I tried to tough my way through her question, but I should have known better.
“It’s easier to relate with an older woman. They are more likely to be less involved in themselves and more interested in others.”
Connie fiddled silently with the silverware. I made another big mistake and baited her with a similar question.
“Do you feel more comfortable around boys your own age?”
Her eyes locked into mine and held them remorselessly.
“They are usually in good enough shape and stay ‘hard’ a lot longer,” she said.
I had it coming. I tried to look calm and in control, but it was not very convincing.
“Please, not so loud,” I whispered.
“Why not?” She said crisply. “No one can hear us.”
I looked at the only other couple seated across the room. Their eyes were dancing nervously back and forth and, every once in awhile, they cast a curious smile in our direction.
“I think they heard you.”
She smiled at them and then bent her head toward me. “Let me give you a some advice, Mr. Case, don’t get too friendly with other women when you’re with the one you plan to ‘hump’ that evening.”
I nodded humbly. She stopped glaring and resumed playing the game with her silverware.
“Was I bad?” she asked coyly.
“Frightening,” I replied, relieved.
She covered her mouth with her hands and laughed silently. “How old are you, anyhow? You should have learned that lesson years ago.”
“How old do I look?”
She cocked her head thoughtfully: “Late thirties, or early to mid forties; where were you born and why do you always say your parents, or guardians?”
I felt a tightness slip around my throat. “You’re not going to believe this, but I’m a foundling.”
“A what?” She said.
“A foundling; I was abandoned by my birth mother on a doorstep.”
You’re not a foundling: who says so?”
“My adoptive father, every time I asked him where I came from, he’d answer, ‘you were found on a doorstep, or in a dumpster, or in a garden under a cabbage leaf.’”
“He was joking with you! Where were you born?”
“I was born in DC, I think, in ‘27’.”
“What?” She said abruptly.
I repeated my words: “I was born in Washington DC in ‘1937’.”
“You did not! You said you were born in 1927.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did.”
“If I did, it was a ‘lapsus linguae’,”
A very big slip,” she said. “If you were born then, you’d be more than … 50 years old.”
“My dyslexia is acting up.”
She gave me a doubtful look. “You’re not dyslexic.”
I am too.”
She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head.
“I’m also astigmatic,” I said and added, “astig-lexia.”
She lifted a spoon and stirred her coffee slowly. “How do you expect anyone to believe you?”
“I get confused,” I said, “and I also have a lousy long-term memory. Can you see the nose on your face?” I asked.
“Yes, I see it;” she replied impatiently, “what about it?”
“You can’t see it, but you know it’s there.”
“Because I can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“Precisely,” I said. “You take it for granted because you can see it whenever it serves your purpose. What about the other things you cannot see, but also think they are there. You accept them on a consensus, or faith.”
“You mean like god?” She said mockingly.
“What if you were blind and didn’t have a mirror, and someone said you were beautiful, or ugly; would you know what they were talking about?”
Returning to her coffee, she gave my words a brief thought and then smiled.
“Okay, you win. You’re a 50-year-old dyslexic with a bad astigmatism, and I’m a girl without a nose; are you happy now?”
I forced a mile. I was not content with my example and disappointed with my companion’s response. I thought briefly about the woman whose name I did not know or could not remember. She grew old and vanished from my sight in the DC home where I spent most of my disturbing and confusing youth.
“She must have been was 60 or 70, with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a drink in her hand on nearly every occasion, and that was a long time ago.”
“Who are we talking about?” Connie said.
“The woman who was rehabilitating, while I was supposed to be growing up,” I said.
“You mean your … caretaker?”
I smiled and nodded before continuing: “No one bothered to inform me when she died. I was out of the country at the time. I didn’t know she was gone for two years.”
“That’s too bad,” she said.
“We weren’t a close family,” I said. “There wasn’t much going on in our lives. Everyone seemed pre-occupied with work, jobs, or education”
Did you get a public or private school education?” She asked.
“I was home schooled, in someone else’s home. Then I went to Georgetown, traveled and worked at English teaching and writing jobs overseas. I can’t remember them all. You could almost say, I was eager and willing to forget the past.”
“I hope you won’t forget me that easily, or take me for granted.” She said. “Jeffrey’s father did that. He would ignore me and ogle every female on the street. I put up with it, but eventually tired of it. I promised myself never to let it happen again.”
“It is rather insensitive,” I said, though I had all but forgotten our brief ogling conversation. I also thought she might want to consider her own good advice.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said. “I’m not accusing you. I just want you to know how I fee
l.”
Her interest returned to the coffee cup and its contents, while I dealt with conflicted feelings. I did not know if I felt deeply about her, but it was my turn to show remorse for the faux pas, so I touched the little finger on her hand, but did not get much of a response.
“It’s been a while since I’ve considered another person’s feelings.” I said.
Her smile appeared somewhat ajar from the rest of her features, and her eyes were not willing to settle and focus. Her fingers escaped and grasped a convenient coffee.
“So, tell me,” she asked sipping; “How is the investigation progressing?”
I slowly drew my lame hand away and unfolded a linen napkin. “I’m getting involved,” I said. “George and I conducted a séance at the house the other night.”
“A séance? Why wasn’t I invited?”
“I didn’t want you to get hurt. Besides, George’s friends were with us.”
“Were you worried about them getting hurting?”
“I think George got it right when he said ‘they are God’s children’, and ‘He is not going to let anything happened to them’.”
“I’d say quite a bit has already happened to them.”
Before I could answer, she raised another issue.
“How about you; could you get hurt?”
I shook her concern off. “No, you see, I got this magic suit: a murdered man’s suit.” The look in her eyes turned haughty. “It’s a suit that was once worn by a murdered man. It keeps the spirits off balance.”
She rolled her eyes skeptically.
“It’s really very hard to take you serious when you talk that way. Sometimes I actually think you believe what you say.”
“Let me finish bringing you up to date,” I said. I told her about the séance, the ring, and about finding the name of the man who built the wall. “His name is Thanatos. It might be a good idea to check out the hospital’s files, just to see if he spent some quality time there, or if his name is on any contracts.”
She wrote the name down on the back of an envelope. I didn’t talk about my observations, which I was still trying to explain to myself, but reminded her of a few unresolved problems that had surfaced earlier.
“A thought occurred to me while I was reading Grier’s file. In the past, when an administrator or a superintendent was hired, did anyone check his credentials?”
She shrugged. “Nowadays they have search committees. As a rule, everyone comes highly recommended, or they have political pull. They may not be skilled technically, but they are usually diplomatic, people who know how to ‘work the system’, or have a reputation. I don’t suppose it was different in the past than it is now.”
She thought about her words before concluding. “You do know that it used to be a political patronage job. People were appointed by the governor, but someone recommended them, so it is basically for services or contributions rendered to the party.”
“So even if a man isn’t qualified, he could end up with the job?”
“It’s possible,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Just something I read in Grier’s file. It says he’s a surgeon, a psychiatrist, and an eye, ear, nose and throat specialist. It just seems silly to me that a man would be so vain. I mean, just being a surgeon isn’t enough? He has to push for overkill, smother everyone with his qualifications; do you know what I mean?”
“I see nothing unusual in it. Most of the MDs measure their worth by how many degrees they hold; it’s all they know and usually it is more than others.”
“I read the notes on one of his autopsies,” I said. “It was as if he were doing it for the first time. He really took it seriously, too seriously. A pro might be less involved.”
I could see she wanted to disagree, but chose not to throw me too far off the scent.
“What shall I do?” she asked.
“Is it possible to confirm Grier’s credentials, find out if he did attend those universities? We could say we were researching or compiling a biography on the man who unofficially performed more lobotomies than anyone else in the state or country?”
“I don’t see why not. It would make a good research project.”
She agreed to get a query out about the same time the quiche arrived.
“I think you are going to like this,” the host said, inviting a compliment. I agreed with a nod, but did not feel bold enough to make eye contact. In her challenging eyes, I suspected, lay the truth of every woman's being.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After lunch, Connie went back to work and I went to the van. Everything was just as I had left it, unfinished. Grier’s journals did not appear to offer as much promise now that I had begun to question his credibility. I had exhausted my patience for wild speculations today.
There were still the Alberichs to contact, now that I was primed with energy and had time to spare. It seemed appropriate to look them up. I was also tired of being the ignorant and unadvised nuisance, so I decided to visit the furnace room on my own without going through official channels.
I locked the van and entered the building through a side door. After a few minutes of confusion, I re-oriented myself and began the long descent down into the furnace room. It was difficult to get around in that wandering behemoth of an institution. The miles of halls and subterranean passages serving as conduits for heat, ventilation and pipes did not make it easier.
I eventually found that long narrow corridor, waited while my eyes adjusted to the darkness and then proceeded down the ramp. Again I wondered why a ramp instead of steps? Were they accustomed to rolling gurneys down to the furnace room? It opened up a new area for speculation, but I didn’t want to think about it. There were simpler, more acceptable ways for disposing of unwanted bodies.
I could hear the roar of the furnace and feel the warmth of its fire before I could see it. It sounded like a stream in full flood cascading over rocky falls. The light from the flames, glowing through the vents in the furnace door, lit up the area for thirty feet. There were no Alberichs however anywhere in sight.
My eyes focused on the mine entrance and the bench where they hung their coveralls, hard hats and lanterns. The hooks were bare, while tools appliances appeared to be missing, which could mean they were inside working. I looked at the small mountain of fuel they had in reserve. Enough, I thought, to keep the hospital warm and in hot water for weeks. There was room for more. Man’s abhorrence of a vacuum demanded its filling. I stepped into the mine entrance and gazed down the dark open shaft. I could see and hear nothing, only infernal blackness. I listened intently, confident that sound confined to such narrow parameters would eventually reach the ears of anyone who listened, but I was wrong. I hear nothing. I walked back to the furnace and bathed in its heat.
This probably wasn’t such a bad job after all, I mused. One need never dread the cold chill of winter. This form of heat was far more penetrating than gas or electric. As my eyes grew accustomed to the basement’s gloom, I could see the lives of the Alberichs were only slightly different from my own. A garbage can nearby was overflowing with plastic milk cartons and empty pizza boxes, soda cans and torn and ragged cellophane bags containing moldy Fritos and corn chips lay in disarray. There were several Louis L’Amour western paperbacks spread-eagle, with their spines humped in the air, on a table close to unmade cots. I could not find a lamp. How those little gnomes managed to read in this darkness was beyond me. I was groping for a pull string that possibly attached to a light somewhere, when I heard the clatter of steel wheels on tracks. I suspected the Alberichs were returning and might not approve of me nosing through their personal effects.
As I turned back to the tunnel, I confronted the startling presence of all three Alberichs standing in the tunnel’s mouth, staring at me with curiously luminous eyes. The lanterns on their hard hats were glowing so dimly as to be useless. The longer I stared, the less luminous their eyes became, until finally there was no glow left in them at all. Their eyes, I suspecte
d, must be bioluminescent like a firefly, or a cat with reflective cell tissue behind their eyes.
“My name is Charles Case,” I said. I knew I would have to fake excuses for my presence. “I’m with the Department of Employment Security. Officials have raised a question as to the suitability of you holding down these positions. The department may recommend mandatory retirement and offer this job to a younger man, or men, whichever is the case.”
They looked at each other without speaking; an inexplicable expression remained on their faces. The mouth of one Alberich opened and something slithered in and out between his lips.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
It never occurred to me that they might be deaf or mute, or both. I tried a few foreign words. If they replied, however, I would not be able to understand.
“We speak English,” one of them replied.
“Good,” I said. “I thought we might be confronting some insurmountable language barrier.” I received no response, so I took a few cautious steps forward.
“How long have you gentlemen been employed here?” I asked.
There was another long drawn-out silence. I could hear them organizing a response, making calculations.
“A long time,” one said. “Since the beginning,” another added. “It’s all in the files,” another replied.
I laughed hoarsely. “That is a very long time, ‘since the beginning’. You mean, since the beginning of the hospital?”
“Since the very beginning,” one replied.
In the darkness, my mind was playing tricks on me. I could see their eyes sparkling with little slivers of orange and silver light.
“May I ask your names?”
“Quilp,” replied one. “Scratch,” replied another. “Ballsitch,” said the last one.
“Uh huh,” I replied and wrote their names in my tablet. “Who is the oldest?”
Again, I confronted a prolonged silence. I longed to hear something, even if it was the sound of my own voice. “Quilp, are you the eldest?”
“We are all the same age,” he replied.
Good, I had identified one voice, not that there was much of a difference in one from the other.
