Starke Naked Dead

by Conda V. Douglas

  “Henry, Dora, get over here right now,” Mrs. McGarrity said. At the sound of her command, Bark hopped down the stairs and joined the circle.

  Henry and Nance proceeded down the drive, heads close together, best friends.

  I sighed and hoisted the sign. I joined the circle.

  “Fine then.” Mrs. McGarrity started walking.

  We all followed.

  “No nakeds!” Mrs. McDay shouted.

  “No nakeds!” we echoed.

  How to get to Godiva without anyone noticing? I wondered as I walked. Wait. There was more than one way into the Castle.

  I stepped out of the circle and earned a glare from Mrs. McGarrity. I mimed a shiver and pointed at my car, which earned me a nod of permission. I strolled toward my car, until everyone turned back to the business of eradicating nudity for all mankind. Then I took off for the back of the Castle.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Cobwebs, dead leaves and other unidentifiable debris clung to my apron and my hair. Ugh. I brushed off as best I could. The kitchen door, half glassed, with one pane long gone, had provided an easy, if messy, access. The cardboard that replaced the pane flapped in the cold breeze. I hadn’t even had to break in.

  Inside, I walked into a pile of leaves that had accumulated over who knew how long next to the door. The leaves flew everywhere, helped by a gust of wind and something that squeaked as it fled.

  I clutched the broom, ready to whack any creature I saw. I realized this was so not a Good Action. That’s why Buddhists practice. I told myself what I truly meant in the Buddhist sense was, ready to gently sweep any adorable small woodland denizen out the door.

  Another rustle had me raising the broom high. I tensed.

  A brown beast with a long scaly tail raced across the filthy floor and disappeared into a hole in the baseboard, too quick for me to strike. I lowered my broom and studied the pile of leaves. I resisted the urge to sweep all the trash out the kitchen door.

  It wouldn’t do much good. The rest of the old hotel kitchen appeared as trashed and trashy as the entrance.

  In the Cameron Castle’s glory days high tea and a full breakfast was served in the dining room, so the kitchen was huge. In one corner an old refrigerator, the kind with coils on the top, still worked. I could tell that by the hum, or roar rather, of it running.

  The only modern touch in the entire enormous space was a tiny microwave that sat next to a sink big enough to bathe a football fullback. Empty frozen food boxes sat stacked high next to the microwave. More TV dinner boxes sat in the overflowing trash. All that trash, quite a boon for the rats, um, chipmunks.

  My nose wrinkled at the reek of stale junk food. I snorted. What was all Godiva’s talk about “my body is a temple?” Maybe Godiva blackmailed Rupert and killed her brother. Maybe not. One thing was certain, that she was a slob.

  Beneath the refrigerator noise and the faint echo of the chanting outside, I heard a faint, rhythmic, thumping sound. It came from upstairs.

  What was Godiva doing? Cleaning? Doubtful. I headed toward the sound.

  I stood at the bottom of the decrepit, narrow servant stairs to the second story and prodded at another leaf pile. Nothing scuttled.

  I placed one foot on the stair. The step groaned. I hesitated. It wouldn’t do me any good to fall through a rotted step and break an ankle.

  From above, Rupert yelled something unintelligible. Oh, Buddha, was Godiva committing another murder? I sprinted up the stairs to the second story. The steps squealing beneath my feet added a counterpoint to the racket above.

  I pinpointed the source of the battle sounds. They came from a room halfway down the hall. I tore in that direction and flung open the door. The old ballroom of the Castle dazzled me. Sheets drooped in tatters from three crystal chandeliers hung across the vast open space. Gilded mirrors, now stained and cracked, covered two of the walls. Huge windows along the courtyard side let the sunlight stream into the ballroom. The fainter sounds of “No nakeds!” streamed in as well.

  On the last wall another enormous stone fireplace reigned. The last embers of a fire still burned within its blackened interior. Despite the warmth still radiating from the fireplace, the cold of the vast space made my breaths puff into the air.

  Close to the fireplace sat a mattress on the top of which roiled—

  I screamed.

  THIRTY-TWO

  My father’s hairy, hideous, horrible behind paused mid-raise. Or thrust. Or plunge.

  “Aargh, aargh, ugh,” I gargled. I squeezed my eyes tight. It didn’t help. I still saw an afterimage of Rupert and Godiva having disgusting, disturbing, dismaying sex.

  “Dora,” Rupert hollered.

  I opened my eyes only to see my naked father leaping from the makeshift bed. I received a full frontal view.

  “Eek.” I wanted to plunge the broomstick into my eyes. Instead, I dropped the broomstick and placed my palms over my eyes and rubbed. Hard.

  “Give me the necklace, it’s the only way to save your father’s wretched life,” Godiva said into my darkness.

  My hands dropped.

  “Wretched?” Rupert echoed. He stepped away from the mattress. Closer to the fireplace. He noticed his naked nearness to the embers and leaped away. Bits swinging.

  Argh. I kept my eyes fixated on Godiva. I blinked at her through the little white and black spots swimming over my vision. She lay beneath the blanket, her limbs spread out in every direction. Maybe, greedy, she wanted to lay claim to the whole bed.

  “What would you call it, Rupert?” Godiva demanded. “You and your rotten teeth.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth.

  Unbidden, my hand snuck up to my mouth. My lips twisted under my fingers. Ick.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Rupert had grabbed his pants off the mattress and leaned on one leg to put them on. All of him leaned, including a long central section—I flinched away. I snatched up the broomstick sign and held it up as a shield against his aged body. Who knew you could get wrinkles there?

  “Yes, wretched is the word,” Rupert said, “when I believed you, my beloved,” he gazed at Godiva, “perished in the flames—” he looked over at the fire and shuddered “—then I had no life. Only despair. Only death.”

  Godiva gave a nod of approval at Rupert and his mushy dreck.

  “The Noira and the money, too,” she said to me. “It’s mine. Mine.” She propped herself up onto her elbows. The blanket fell away. With her generous endowment and without a bra, the effects of decades of gravity were revealed.

  I looked away, toward the windows. Mrs. McGarrity’s voice rose above the others. “Out!”

  “I’m not going to let those stupid old women run me out of Starke again,” Godiva said, rage in every word. “Not until I get what I returned for.”

  “Me,” my father breathed.

  “Sure,” Godiva agreed, with not an ounce of conviction in her tone. She shivered. “It’s always freezing,” she said in a tone that insisted somebody fix the weather. Right now. She tugged up the blanket. To my relief.

  “You might want to rethink the whole naked thing,” I said to her, my voice high and breathy.

  “My uncle disapproved too,” she said.

  I opened my mouth to say I didn’t disapprove so much as I hated a preview of my own bust’s future.

  “And because I was a naturist girl, not a naturist boy like my brother,” Godiva continued, snarling out the words. “My uncle stole my birthright from me. He hated me being in my birth state, innocent and free.”

  “I told you I wasn’t a thief,” Rupert said to me.

  Godiva sat up further. “And Uncle—may he burn forever—was going to give my beloved away to—to—” she sputtered “—the masses.” She spat the last word out with a gob of spittle.

  “Beloved? Birth state? Birthright?” I struggled with Godiva’s obsessive convolutions. “Masses?”

  “The true truth, beauty to beauty, glory to the glorious,” Rupert said.

>   That didn’t help.

  I peeked over the sign at Rupert. He now, thank the Buddha, wore both pants and shirt. I lowered the broom.

  “Did you bring the money with you?” he asked.

  “And the Noira,” Godiva said.

  My hands itched on the broomstick to beat Godiva, or maybe Rupert, about the head. Okay, so not Right Action. Make me care.

  “Are you telling me you still care for—for—” I pointed with the broomstick at Godiva, “this blackmailing fratricide?”

  “You’re wrong, Dora—” My father paused and tipped his head toward the picture windows. “They’ve stopped chanting.”

  Rupert and I rushed to the window. Rupert stood behind me and off to the side as I looked out.

  The Widows Brigade looked back.

  Beyond the porch roof, they arrayed below us, their circle now ragged. Mrs. McDay’s sign drooped. Mrs. McGarrity stood with both hands on hips, never good. Even Bark stared up at us, his head cocked to one side.

  Nance and Henry had disappeared. I didn’t have the energy to worry about what that meant.

  It must have been all the yelling and screaming, Rupert’s yelling and my screaming.

  Mrs. McChin looked over her shoulder. “There they are,” she shouted at Mallard and Lester, who headed up the circular driveway. She pointed at us.

  “It’s Rupert,” Mrs. McDay called out. Even with ancient eyes, she’d spotted him cowering behind me.

  My father yelped.

  The cops broke into a run.

  “Help! Help!” Godiva yelled.

  She gave me an evil Mona Lisa smile. I raised the broomstick and her smile disappeared.

  Rupert tugged on the window sash. “Dora, help me,” he said. He grunted with effort.

  Down below us, Lester pulled out his gun. He disappeared underneath the porch roof, Mallard right behind him. The Castle’s front door crashed open.

  “Help,” Godiva squawked.

  Together, Rupert and I pushed up on the window sash. The window came up with a squeal. Rupert clambered out onto the porch roof.

  “He’s escaping!” Mrs. McGarrity bellowed.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Not again,” Mallard’s voice came from the stairwell.

  Rupert skittered across the old asphalt tiles. Several of them gave way and flew off. One of the tiles smacked Bark on the head and he yelped.

  “Don’t run,” Mrs. McDay said. “They’ll shoot you.”

  Rupert leaped off the porch roof corner. He landed next to Mrs. McGarrity. She raised her broom high.

  Lester flung open the ballroom door. I turned to see him lift his gun. I turned back to see Mrs. McGarrity whack Rupert with the broom.

  “Don’t—” I said. Then a thick black curling snake of death rose over Starke. No, rising close to Dog Face Mountain. My home.

  “Oh god, oh god, oh god. Fire!” I shouted.

  Everyone froze. Mrs. McGarrity stopped, the broom in mid-strike. Rupert stood poised on one foot, hands over his head. Behind me I heard Lester’s hard breathing.

  “Fire!” I yelled.

  As one, the people below looked at me. Then several looked in the direction of Canine Creek.

  “No!” I flung my arm out the window. It struck the sash with a thump. Pain shot to my shoulder. I pointed. “In town! In Starke!”

  Mrs. McDay screamed and then clasped both hands to her mouth.

  Rupert broke and ran. Miss Mary grabbed her two youngest. Billy grabbed the two siblings nearest to him. Tony flew toward his truck, which roared into life and shot down the driveway. Mallard’s and Lester’s footsteps thundered back down the Castle stairs. Jeff turned to his grandmother, Mrs. McGarrity, and gestured at her with his outstretched hand.

  She patted her myriad pockets and looked around herself. Jeff’s gesture grew desperate. Jamey yelled, “Gamma, keys, keys.”

  I grabbed my keys from my apron pocket. I leaned as far as I could out of the window. “Jeff!”

  He ignored me.

  Mallard and Lester raced to their police car. Joe ran to his, his wine forgotten. Miss Mary and Billy loaded up her kids into her old Volkswagen van.

  I tried again. “James.”

  The police car’s tires spit gravel as it tore out of the driveway.

  James ignored me.

  “Jeffy, Jamey,” I said in my old babysitter voice.

  They both looked up.

  I held out the keys and shook them. “Take the station wagon.” I tossed the keys hard so they’d clear the porch overhang.

  James caught them on the fly. The brothers ran to the station wagon.

  I raced toward the stairs.

  “All this silly fuss for a little fire?” Godiva asked.

  As I passed the mattress I whammed it with my sign. She scuttled away from me, exposing her breasts.

  “You need a bra,” I said as my parting shot.

  Outside, Mrs. McGarrity searched through a voluminous purse, almost as large as Nance’s.

  I resisted the urge to snatch the purse out of her hands. “Dump it out,” I said.

  Mrs. McGarrity looked at me with an irritated frown, then nodded. She took the purse and turned it upside down. A profusion of objects tumbled out.

  I heard a snort. I looked up at the source of the sound. Godiva leaned out the ballroom window. She waved a large white flag.

  What? Was she surrendering? Then I saw it was an enormous brassiere.

  “Remember,” she shouted, “get what’s mine to me or kiss your father goodbye forever.”

  I considered flipping her a defiant one-finger bird. Not Right Action. And not in front of the Widows Brigade.

  Mrs. McGarrity held up her keys in triumph. “Found ’em.”

  I snatched them out of her hand.

  Mrs. McGarrity clutched her tatted bosom. “Dora, how dare—”

  “I’m driving.”

  Mrs. McGarrity, Mrs. McDay and Mrs. McChin all opened their mouths.

  I started toward Mrs. McGarrity’s car. “Come on, now or never,” I said in my best Aunt Maddie tone.

  They fell in line behind me.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Charles’ paintings didn’t burn well. Stacked into a cone, with the small pictures in the core and the larger on top, all the awful things did was smolder and stink. Thirty-year-old oils on canvas, his paintings should have produced a huge conflagration. Instead, only one small painting at the center of the conical stack displayed serious damage. Several other paintings showed singe marks. The burn damage improved Charles’ work.

  Aunt Maddie never could build a fire. She always tried. But her fires in our fireplace always ended up all smoke. A last wisp curled up from the center painting. James sprayed it again with the garden hose and the painting sizzled. It looked even better soaking wet.

  “That’s the last,” James said.

  “What little there was,” Jeff said. They appeared almost disappointed. Almost.

  Across from Looney Jump Creek, Starke’s brand new fire engine waited. Somehow to me it seemed a little frustrated. Almost.

  Aunt Maddie stood to one side of her failed bonfire. A smudge of black ash covered her forehead and one cheek. Her green gardening coat now resembled a mudpack. And Aunt Maddie, huddled, a defeated mud hen.

  Lester and Mallard and the Widows Brigade stood across from her.

  At least the rest of Starke didn’t witness my aunt’s humiliation. I knew that Miss Mary, Tony and Joe and Mo all now raced through town, banging on doors, alerting the residents to the danger. A fire could destroy a drought-dry mountain town in moments. Fire kills.

  Dog Face Mountain towered behind the police and the Brigade. The dog’s face appeared to snarl in disdain at my aunt. Fire kills.

  Mallard’s uniform shirt glistened soaking wet. Not all from sweat this time. Along with Jeff and James, he’d been dousing the last of the few flames when I, and the Widows Brigade, arrived.

  Lester stood next to him. Arms crossed in front, not a d
rop of moisture on him.

  We all stunk of the rank, dirty smoke. And fear. The fire had painted us all with terror.

  I needed a shower. A change of clean clothes. My skin itched as if I’d never get clean.

  “Oh, Margaret, how could you?” Mrs. McDay said.

  Ohm, she’d used my aunt’s full name. Nobody did that. Ever.

  Aunt Maddie didn’t even look up. “I thought Charles’ love would burn hot and clean,” she said in a flat voice.

  “And burn down the whole town,” Mrs. McGarrity said.

  “I don’t think it would have done that.” Mrs. McChin pointed at the trench Aunt Maddie had dug in our back yard.

  A few inches deep and wide, it circled the paintings. Aunt Maddie must have spent all night digging. An image came to my mind of my aunt toiling away through the night and early morning hours on a chore of destruction.

  The sun reflected off the water filling the trench and reminded me of the scales on a snake. It reminded me of Ouroboros, the snake that swallowed his tail, a symbol of life eternal.

  Aunt Maddie stared at the fire, her eyes dead. I’d never seen her face so blank. I didn’t believe my aunt wanted a symbol for eternity when she made the trench. She shook her head. “I thought I could burn it all away.” She scrunched lower in her muddied green gardening coat.

  “That and everything else, if it had jumped that moat,” Mrs. McGarrity said.

  “Little chance of that.” James rolled up the last of the hose and laid it next to the studio. “C’mon Gamma, let’s go.”

  “I thought it would burn hot enough,” my aunt said.

  “Hot enough for what?” Mrs. McDay said.

  “Once again I could feel the heat of his love,” Aunt Maddie continued as if no one had spoken. As if no one was there. She reached up and scrubbed at the ash on her cheek.

  I gasped. My aunt’s hand shone pink and raw, burned as if she’d held her hand into the fire. Had Aunt Maddie intended to make a funeral pyre? For herself?