Elizabeth suddenly realised that the scattered sausages were his missing fingers, blackened and swollen.
She swallowed, and swallowed again. The man’s face looked like a negro’s face, but even though his belly was blotched with the same kind of inky-indigo discolorations that covered his face and his feet and his upper arms, it was plump and white, definitely a white man’s belly. His thighs were white, too, and thick with gingery hair. She stepped closer. She slid closer, until the toes of her sandals were almost touching his hip. He had dense gingery hair between his legs, too, but he didn’t seem to have a thing – what Mrs Westerhuiven would have called male reproductive equipment and Laura a pecker. Only diseased-looking gristle, yellow and black.
He stank, too. He stank like gas, and dead birds, and sour milk, and every smell that made you really sick.
She didn’t look too closely. She was far too shocked, far too embarrassed. She was so frightened that she was making a mewing noise, like a locked-out kitten.
The man stopped pedalling his arms and tried to focus on her. His face was so swollen that he could hardly open his piggy little bloodshot eyes. His lips had burst, revealing livid crimson flesh.
‘Oh Christ Jesus,’ he whispered. One of those hurrying, hurrying whispers.
‘What?’ said Elizabeth, in dread.
‘Oh Christ Jesus forgive me, forgive me.’
‘What happened to you?’ Elizabeth asked him. ‘Where’s Mr Bracewaite? What’s happened?’
The man pedalled his arms again; and Elizabeth realized that he was doing it because he was in so much pain.
‘Forgive me Jesus for all of my sins, forgive me, forgive me.’
He tried to catch hold of the hem of her dress with one of his terrible fingerless hands, but Elizabeth stepped back, not mewling any more, but trembling uncontrollably.
‘I’ll call for the doctor!’ she screamed at him. ‘It’s all right! I’ll call for the doctor!’
He reached out towards her, black-balloon-faced, a thing out of a child’s worst nightmare. ‘Jesus Christ forgive me for what I did and spare me from eternal damnation, Father Son and Holy Ghost I never meant to touch her, I never meant to touch her it was love and love alone.’
Elizabeth couldn’t speak. She backed to the door, quite unable to take her eyes off this blackened, swollen monster thrashing and begging and praying to Jesus for forgiveness.
She was seized with the terrible thought that he had spontaneously combusted, like Mr Krook in Bleak House – burned black, yet left the carpet and the furniture unscathed.
‘Jesus forgive me,’ the monster begged. ‘Lord forgive me, my beautiful Laura, my beautiful Laura.’
Laura? Elizabeth couldn’t understand what he was babbling about. What did Laura have to do with this swollen, repulsive man who was rolling about on the kitchen floor? Elizabeth had never seen him before; and actively prayed that she would never have to see him again. Maybe he had seen her once, and heard somebody calling out Laura’s name, and assumed that she was Laura. Maybe they looked enough alike for him to have muddled them up: there were, after all, only two years between them. She reached the door. As soon as her hand touched the handle, she flew arms-and-legs across the corridor. Her sandals pattered on the parquet. Then she was out through the study and bursting through the net curtains that covered the french windows and into the garden. She couldn’t scream out. She was too breathless to scream out, her chest felt all squeezed in. All she could do was stand on the lawn staring at the windows hoping against hope that the black-balloon-faced man couldn’t find the strength to follow her.
The black-balloon-faced fingerless man, oh criminy.
Nothing happened for a long, long time. Nothing happened for almost a minute. The birds chirruped, the roses nodded, and their thick creamy petals dropped into the flowerbeds. She heard traffic on Oak Street, and the sound of a woman laughing.
She had to tell somebody. The man could be dying. He could be dead by now, and then she would have him on her conscience. His terrible swollen face would visit her in nightmares, whispering for Jesus to forgive him, and asking her accusingly why she hadn’t called for help.
In the end, she made her way step by step back, drew back the billowing nets, and stepped back inside.
‘Hallo?’ she called. ‘Are you still here?’
Silence. Then a sudden banging noise, which made her jump, until she realized it had come from outside, somebody slamming a gate.
She went to Dick Bracewaite’s desk and picked up the phone. Almost at once, Lucy the operator gave her usual nasal response. ‘Sherman exchange, Reverend, and a very good afternoon to you. What number did you want?’
‘Lucy, this isn’t Mr Bracewaite, it’s Elizabeth Buchanan.’
‘Well, hi, Lizzie, how are you today? I saw your mom earlier. Good to know that she’s getting so much better.’
‘Lucy – Mr Bracewaite isn’t here but something terrible’s happened. There’s a man here, in Mr Bracewaite’s kitchen, and he’s wearing no clothes, and it looks like he’s burned or something.’
‘This isn’t one of your practical jokes, is it, Lizzie?’ Lucy demanded, sharply. Elizabeth and Laura had regularly amused themselves last summer by ringing Lucy and saying ‘Is that the operator on the line? Well, you’d better get off quick, there’s a train coming!’
‘No joke, Lucy, cross my heart.’
‘All right, then, don’t you fret. You just leave the house now, quick as you can, and stand outside to wait for the sheriff and the ambulance. I’ll call them now, directly.’
‘You’ll be quick, won’t you? He looked like he was dying. All of his fingers were dropped off, it was awful!’
‘Don’t you fret, Lizzie. Put down the phone now and go wait outside. Don’t try to do nothing for yourself, you can only make it worse.’
Elizabeth hung up. She stood in the study for one long moment, listening for any moans or cries from the black-balloon-faced man. Then she left the rectory and walked quickly around to the roadway. She stood by the railing, confident at first, feeling almost heroic. But as the minutes passed, and the oak trees rustled over her head, and the cloud shadows darkly dreamed their way across the sidewalk, she began to feel light-headed. By the time that Sheriff Grierson’s big Hudson Six came wailing around the intersection with Oak Street, its red light flashing, she was seeing everything in negative, and the blackness was spangled with stars.
Doctor Ferris came out of the hospital room and closed the door very quietly behind him. He was a lean man of nearly sixty, with the look of a concert violinist rather than a country doctor. He had a large, deeply-pored nose, in which his glasses had made two reddened impressions, and eyes that were slightly too near together and unexpectedly cold. He was wearing a baggy linen suit, his pockets bulging with everything that a country doctor and a pipe smoker and a whittler and an amateur birdwatcher could ever need. He didn’t really play the violin: he only looked as if he did.
Sheriff Grierson was making friendly conversation with Sister Baker, who liked to think that she bore more than a passing resemblance to Lana Turner, although her starchy uniform was filled with the equivalent of Lana Turner-and-a-half. She didn’t know that was what Sheriff Grierson liked about her so much. He was a big man himself, wore an XXL of everything, and liked his pie, and women who spread out some, instead of those mean pinched-up looking ones.
Doctor Ferris folded his glasses and said. ‘It’s the Reverend all right, no doubt about it. I saw the birthmark on his back when he visited me before, for his kidney-trouble.’
‘Well I’ll be . . .’ said Sheriff Grierson. ‘Is he going to survive?’
‘Doubtful, I’d say. Very, very doubtful. That’s dead, all of that black area. Gangrenous. We’d have to operate to see how deep it goes, but you can see what’s happened to his fingers and toes. Dropped off. And all the flesh on his face is liable to drop off, too. I’m amazed he isn’t dead already.’
‘The Lord’s will, I g
uess,’ said Sheriff Grierson. ‘What do you think happened to him? How’d he get all gangreeny like that?’
‘I know what happened to him, Wally. The trouble is, I can’t understand how it happened.’
‘What are you trying to tell me? He wasn’t murdered, was he? Poisoned or something?’
Doctor Ferris shook his head. ‘The Reverend Dick Bracewaite is suffering from severe frostbite. Worst case I ever came across.’
Sheriff Grierson stared at him. ‘Frostbite?’
‘I know,’ shrugged Doctor Ferris. ‘Sounds ludicrous, doesn’t it, frostbite on one of the warmest days of the year. But that’s what it is. Not just frostnip, either, which makes your affected skin go dead white. This is your real hundred per cent turn-you-black frostbite.’
‘How could that possibly be?’ asked Sheriff Grierson; and Sister Baker said, ‘Frostbite? Where does anybody get themselves frostbitten in the middle of the summer?’
‘I surely don’t know,’ said Doctor Ferris. ‘The only thing I can think of is that somebody abducted him and locked in him a cold-store and then brought him back again, but I think the likelihood of that having occurred is just about next-to-nil. I saw him myself mid- to late-afternoon, fourish maybe, and the nearest refrigerating plant that could have froze him to this extent is over in New Milford. Then again somebody could have stripped him naked and poured liquid gas all over him, oxygen or nitrogen maybe, but the Lord alone knows how much gas anybody would have needed to cause this much frostbite.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense, either,’ Sheriff Grierson put in. ‘Why go to all the trouble of killing a fellow with liquid gas when you can shoot him or strangle him or knock him on the head?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Doctor Ferris. ‘I have to admit that I don’t have a single sensible explanation.’
‘Did he talk to you at all?’
‘He said, “Forgive me” just the two times, and that was all.’
‘That’s what he kept saying when they were carrying him out to the ambulance.’
‘Oh . . . one thing more,’ said Doctor Ferris. ‘He said, “girder”. At first I thought he was trying to say “murder”, but he said it again, and it was definitely “girder”.’
Sheriff Grierson thoughtfully rubbed the side of his neck. ‘Girder, huh? That’s not much to go on.’
‘Could be referring to a construction site,’ Doctor Ferris suggested. ‘Or maybe a girder bridge.’
‘The bridge over the Housatonic at New Milford is a girder bridge,’ said Sister Baker.
‘Practically ever darn bridge between here and Canada is a girder bridge,’ Sheriff Grierson retorted. ‘I don’t know . . . I’ve got a bad feeling about this one. This one feels like a headache with an upset stomach, and it’s going to take more than Speedy Alka-Seltzer to cure it.’
‘You want to see him now?’ asked Doctor Ferris, and Sheriff Grierson nodded.
Doctor Ferris opened the door and led the way back into Dick Bracewaite’s room. The windows were closed to keep the temperature high, and the smell of gradually-thawing flesh was overpowering. Two nurses were attending to him: one wrapping his arms and his legs in warm hospital towels, the other bathing his blackened, swollen face. Both nurses wore red rubber aprons, and facemasks.
Sheriff Grierson pressed his hand over his face. ‘God almighty,’ he said, and then he retched.
‘Of course the gangrene didn’t smell so bad when he was cold,’ Doctor Ferris explained. ‘If he’s still alive when we’ve finished thawing him out, we can rub him down with a little boric acid ointment mixed with eucalyptus. Helps to subdue the smell.’
Sheriff Grierson approached the bed. Dick Bracewaite’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was catchy and irregular. Sheriff Grierson stood watching him for a while with his hand still clasped over his mouth and nose. He had seen plenty of bodies in his years as sheriff of Litchfield County. He had seen people who had burned to death, people who had drowned, people who had blown their chins off. He had even seen people who had died of frostbite, children and vagrants caught out by a sudden snowstorm. But he had never seen anybody who looked like this: puffed up and black like a slowly-collapsing pig’s bladder.
However the Reverend Bracewaite had sustained his injuries, whether by accident, or self-mutilation, or by the hand of somebody who wanted him dead, his very flesh had been killed, even when his soul and his spirit were still alive. His face was dead, his arms were dead, his legs were dead – yet, miraculously, the man himself was breathing.
Sheriff Grierson glanced at one nurse, and then at the other. The first one had wide china-blue eyes.
‘Okay if I talk to him?’ Sheriff Grierson asked.
‘You may if you care to. But he probably won’t reply.’
Grierson reluctantly took his hand away from his face. ‘Rever’nd Bracewaite!’ he called, like a man calling a shy cat. ‘Rever’nd Bracewaite! It’s Sheriff Grierson here, Wally Grierson. Want to talk to you some, if you’re compost mentis.’
Dick Bracewaite opened his tiny, swelled-up eyes. He stared at the Sheriff for a while. Then he whispered, ‘. . . irder.’
‘What?’ Sheriff Grierson demanded. ‘What did you say? Did you say “murder”, or did you say “girder”? Come on, Rever’nd Bracewaite, I have to know!’
But Dick Bracewaite was already subsiding. His chest heaved up and down, and his breathing sounded like somebody scraping rough twine over cardboard. He coughed up a fine spray of blood. He coughed again. Then he stopped in mid-cough, and then he died.
Sheriff Grierson stood up straight. He looked at the nurses in their surgical masks and the nurse with the wide china-blue eyes batted her eyelashes at him.
‘Guess that’s it,’ said Sheriff Grierson, tugging up his belt. ‘Guess that’s no more Sunday sermons for a week or two.’
The next morning, while the streets of Sherman were still filled with sun-golden mist, the Sheriff drove back to St Michael’s and parked outside the white-painted railings. He walked up to the front door of the rectory and rang the doorbell, and waited while the Reverend Bracewaite’s housemaid came down to answer it. She was a small woman with false teeth and a brunette wig which looked as if it had originally been made for a woman much bigger and much darker. She wore a floral housecoat and a dry, wrinkled expression of intense dislike.
‘Wally Grierson,’ she said. ‘What do you want? Zif things aint troubled enough.’
‘Hallo, May,’ said Sheriff Grierson. ‘I’ve come to take a look around, that’s all. Study, kitchen. You didn’t touch nothing, did you?’
‘That cheeky young deputy of yours, the one with the spots, he said not to, so I didn’t.’
‘Thanks, May.’
Grierson stepped inside the rectory. He took off his hat, and looked around.
‘Kitchen’s this way,’ said May, crossly, and shuffled ahead of him. She swung open the door and said, ‘Help yourself.’
‘You sure you didn’t touch nothing?’ asked Sheriff Grierson.
‘Touch anything? Are you kidding me? Do you think I want to risk the wrath of Wally Grierson, class of ’25? Pie-eating champeen, weren’t you, two years running?’
‘That’s enough, May,’ he admonished her. ‘This is the house of God.’
‘This is the house of God-knows-what, you mean.’
She went shuffling off and left him alone in the kitchen where the Reverend Dick Bracewaite had been found dying. He stood still for a moment, taking in the pine table and the cream-painted hutch with its jars of sugar and salt and Sanka coffee and the packets of Flako Pie Crust and Nunso Dehydrated corn. A blowfly droned and droned around the room. The electric clock on the wall had stopped at 5:07.
He had looked over the kitchen yesterday, when he had first been called here, but he had seen nothing at all which had told him how Dick Bracewaite could have been frostbitten. Only Dick Bracewaite himself, blackened and shaking and lapsing in and out of unconsciousness.
He paced around
the kitchen, frowning, looking, touching things. On the upper shelves of the hutch, there stood a row of china jugs, as well as cups and saucers and tea plates. Below them, there stood a row of copper saucepans, but the odd thing about the saucepans was that they were all crowded to one side of the shelf. So were a sugar-shaker and a tinplate tea caddy on the shelf underneath.
Sheriff Grierson went over to the hutch and opened the drawers, one by one. In each of them, all the cutlery and the kitchen tools were crammed over to the left. He stood looking at them for a long time, and then at the stopped clock. The last time he had seen anything like this was when the Dixon house over at Gaylordsville was struck by lightning. Everything metal had tumbled into the living-room, where the lightning had struck, and all the clocks had stopped. A massive wave of magnetic energy, that was what had caused it. But that had been lightning. What could have caused a massive wave of magnetic energy in Dick Bracewaite’s kitchen?
He left the kitchen and walked across to the study. The morning was beginning to warm up now, and he could hear the vireos warbling in the trees. He picked up Dick Bracewaite’s Sunday sermon and read a few lines. Stay silent, or say something sweeter than silence. Well, he thought, Dick Bracewaite was surely going to be silent now. He look up at the photograph of Dick Bracewaite as a theology student, and at Susanna and the Elders. Kind of fruity for a Reverend, he thought; but a Reverend could hardly put up a picture of Betty Grable.
He opened the middle drawer of the desk. Just the usual stuff, pens, ink, paperclips, a small silver crucifix on a chain, a half-eaten roll of mint. Life Savers.
He looked in the side drawers, one by one. He found nothing but neatly-arranged envelopes and notepaper, and an ecclesiastical calendar for 1942.
Spirit Page 10
