Unquiet Ghosts

by Glenn Meade

  Once I asked Kyle what he liked to do. It was a rhetorical question, just to fill the silence, but Raymond was right there, hanging loose, wearing Batman pajamas that were two sizes too small for him. He was scratching his crotch the way he always did, as if he had a bad case of fleas, hoping for another slice of Bavarian chocolate cake.

  “What do you like, Kyle?” I asked again when I got no answer.

  “Boobies,” Raymond said, scratching himself as if he were on fire.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He likes to watch the nurses’ boobies. I see him watching them sometimes. I watch them, too. Especially Janice.”

  “Janice?”

  “Nurse Janice. She’s got the nicest.” Raymond giggled.

  Thanks, Raymond. Of all the answers. It was one of the few laughs I got in this place. I knew Kyle still had feelings; I saw his eyes wet a few times. Mostly he never showed them. I guessed the meds he was on to stop the seizures that he sometimes suffered didn’t help.

  I embraced Kyle and blinked away the tears. Then I wheeled him out to the sunroom, the doors open, a cool breeze blowing into the room. Kyle sat in the wheelchair, head to one side. “So, how are you doing, bro? All right?”

  It was very peaceful, the lawns beyond the glass rolling away to a thick forest, the Smoky Mountains beyond. A breeze blew in across the glazed cream tiles and ruffled Kyle’s hair. I leaned over and patted it down.

  Kyle nodded again. Yes. He began to rock back and forth in his wheelchair. He liked to rock. It seemed to comfort him. He looked so boyish, with his blond hair and pale, milky skin. Sometimes I thought about all the things he might have been if his life hadn’t turned out the way it had.

  Right now he’d probably be married, have kids, be living a life full of highs and lows like us all—but above all, living. I so often had to push such thoughts away; they disturbed me. Then I always told myself that Kyle was alive, that was what was important, and we still had each other. “You miss me, Kyle?”

  He nodded and rocked.

  “Have you been eating right? Is everything good? Tell me some news.”

  Kyle just smiled back at me, a brief smile that vanished as quickly as it came.

  My mind drifted back to the crash site. I wished I could tell Kyle my news, that I was filled with hope and elation and a powerful curiosity. But Kyle would understand none of it, or if he did, he would say nothing. Nothing more than a grunted word or two at best.

  Raymond sauntered by, scratching his crotch, and peered in. “Got cake?”

  “No cake today, Raymond.”

  “Oooh, OK.” And he was gone.

  I sat there, talking as always while I held on to Kyle’s hand and rubbed his arm. Talking about nothing, really, just filling the void with meaningless small talk, until a good twenty minutes later I heard footsteps behind us and looked around.

  A graceful black lady—a nurse’s aide named Deesha—stepped into the sunroom.

  “The iPod—where did Kyle get it, Deesha? Was it from Courtney?”

  “No, ma’am. She was here yesterday. But another visitor gave him the gift. He was here yesterday, too.”

  “Who?”

  “Old Army buddy of Kyle’s, I believe. Amputee, in a motorized wheelchair. Didn’t you ever see him before? He visited Kyle last week, too, when you were here.”

  Come to think of it, on my way in to see Kyle on my last visit, I passed a guy in a motorized wheelie in the hallway. Grizzled, with a beard, a real mountain man type, one leg amputated above the knee. He gave me a silent nod, as if maybe he knew me, and then he was gone, powering his way down the corridor.

  “Guy with a beard, a leg missing?”

  “That’s probably him. He’s left stuff for Kyle before. Nice gifts, expensive. That really good bathrobe he got a few years back, I think that was the same guy. And the new TV he got in his room last winter.”

  “I thought that the home replaced the old one?”

  “No, ma’am. The same guy. Been coming here for years, I’d say. You’ve never seen him before?”

  “Maybe I have.” His face looked kind of familiar. “He’s not a patient here?”

  “No, ma’am. But I’ve seen him here before, visiting Kyle. Sometimes he brings his kids.” Deesha gave a dazzling smile. “He calls his boy Elvis. The girl’s name is Marilyn, after Marilyn Monroe, I believe.”

  “You get his name?”

  “No, ma’am, but it’ll be in the visitors book. Everybody’s got to sign in, or they don’t get past Agnes.”

  Agnes was bulletproof, with a hide as hard as Kevlar. Mountain-tough, she manned the reception desk with a mullet that had gone out of style decades ago everywhere but in the Appalachians. Not that you’d dare tell Agnes that to her face, unless you wanted to die a painful death.

  “Thanks.”

  Deesha said, “Sure seems like it’s a day for visitors. There’s a man outside asking to see you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Asked for you by name. I think he’s foreign. Sure looks foreign. He’s waiting out in the hall.”

  28

  * * *

  He looked Arab, Persian, Mexican—it was kind of hard to tell.

  Tall, meaty, around thirty, black mustache, square head, no neck. He was waiting at the end of the hall, pacing up and down. Dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt, and black tie. His shirt was a size too small, so that his gut strained at the buttons.

  Our eyes locked, and we met in the middle of the hall. I had the weird impression that he looked like a butler of some kind. Stiff and formal. His coarse skin made him seem even more sinister.

  “Ms. Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  He offered his hand, his accent faintly Middle Eastern. “It is good to see you.”

  I shook the offered palm, which was limp and moist. “Do I know you?”

  “No. I was asked to deliver a message to you.”

  He handed me a business card.

  I looked at the gold-embossed lettering, and I wasn’t surprised.

  Tarik Funeral Home.

  Licensed embalmer and crematorium

  We care for your loved ones

  With compassion and respect.

  There was an address, off Kingston Pike, Knoxville’s main commercial drag, the alpha and omega where every direction began and ended. “From Kingston Pike, go east . . . or west.” Whatever.

  “What has this got to do with?”

  “Your deceased loved ones, Ms. Kelly.”

  “There must be some misunderstanding. If it’s about the air crash, my family’s remains haven’t been found.”

  No-Neck totally ignored my reply. It was as if I hadn’t spoken. He offered a weird half grin that looked kind of creepy. “Mr. Tarik thinks it is very important that you see him today.” He pointed to the address on the card. “He is expecting you soon. He would appreciate if you called by the address on the card.”

  I stared back at him, waiting for him to explain.

  “Mr. Tarik has an important message to deliver to you, about your family.”

  I felt a catch in my heart. “What . . . message?”

  “Mr. Tarik will explain. Good day, Ms. Kelly.” And without another word, the man turned and exited by the reception’s front door.

  Just like that. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

  I stood there, puzzled, looking down at the card, before I stared out at the parking lot. The man climbed into a gleaming black Mercedes and drove off.

  Weird.

  What message about my family?

  Deesha came up beside me. “That man who visited Kyle and gave him the iPod?”

  “What about him?”

  Deesha nodded over to Agnes at the reception desk, granite-faced and with mullet hair, busy on a phone call.


  “Agnes thinks she knows the guy.”

  * * *

  As I climbed into my car, my cell phone rang.

  I didn’t recognize the number. But it was Courtney. “Hey, Kath, how are you, honey?”

  Courtney was larger than life, even in a military uniform. But today her tone sounded more muted than usual. Had she seen the news on TV about the crash site? If she did, she never said. She also seemed to want to keep the conversation brief.

  “I’m at my aunt Jean’s place in Seven Oaks? My mom’s staying in Knoxville a few days, and I called by to visit. She and Jean are just leaving to go shopping and have lunch. The place will be free, we’ll have some privacy. Could you meet me there?”

  “Sure. Is everything OK?”

  “Yeah, just wanted to catch up.” Courtney was keeping it brief. She usually kept you talking for an hour. I had the feeling she wanted to talk but not over the phone.

  “Courtney . . .”

  I almost said it, but I didn’t. Courtney beat me to it.

  “I know, honey, I know. I saw the news. Keep sane until I see you, OK? You doing OK? You can’t be.”

  “It’s crazy. Can . . . can you give me an hour or two? I’ve got something to do first. Someone to see.”

  I checked my watch. Eight-fifteen a.m. I had almost six hours until Jack’s call.

  “Get here as soon as you can, OK? It’s kind of important. And honey . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I just don’t want to talk about it on my cell, OK?”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Just don’t. I’ll explain when I see you.”

  29

  * * *

  Knoxville, Tennessee

  9:10 a.m.

  The girl’s body lay naked on the metal gurney.

  She was ravishing, with long blond hair, barely seventeen.

  Fazil Tarik thought, What a total waste. He heard a noise outside the mortuary building and stared out. Through the blinds, he saw a black Mercedes pull into the red-brick courtyard building’s lot off Kingston Pike. It parked next to the hand-painted wooden sign that said “Tarik, Undertakers, Licensed Embalmers and Crematorium.”

  Tarik turned his attention back to the corpse. He was busy that afternoon, applying his skills to the victim of a drunk-driving accident. A tall man of sixty with a neatly trimmed and pencil-thin mustache—dyed black, unlike his shock of gray hair—Tarik wore a dark suit and had an actor’s well-practiced, sorrowful expression. His dour look gave him the appearance of a demanding man used to getting what he wanted.

  On a wooden table next to him lay a selection of mortician’s implements, the familiar tools of his trade: a rubber mallet, a jar of formaldehyde preservative, and pots of brushes and makeup pads. He studied the girl’s body that lay before him, her head bandaged.

  He smiled, and his smile was an unpleasant thing, his teeth too small for his wide mouth, like some kind of rodent’s.

  Such a terrible waste of youth and beauty, Tarik reflected with a sigh, but then traffic deaths were all too common in America. And some hillbillies drove even more crazily than the lunatics back in his native Iraq.

  In Knoxville, as in most of the South, you had to forget traffic rules you learned elsewhere. Southerners had their own version. The Trans-Am with the loudest exhaust goes first at a four-way stop, and the truck with the biggest tires goes after that.

  If you stopped at a yellow light, you would be rear-ended, cussed out, and possibly shot. The minimum acceptable speed on the interstate was eighty-five. Anything less than that was downright sissy. And the scariest of all, drugs and alcohol were a frightening and frequent reality on the highway. Hence so many road deaths, like the one in front of him. Drive hammered, get nailed.

  When he finished applying a touch of rouge to the young girl’s cheeks, Tarik stared down at his handiwork. He enjoyed working on young females—it gave him a chance to admire their bodies. He studied the girl’s full breasts, her silken legs, her splendid curves. Her left breast was still badly bruised from the crash. Tarik dabbed on more makeup, touching the breast with a pad. It felt hard. Rigor had set in.

  He kept his fingers there for a few seconds too long, massaging the pad into the dead flesh, until he stepped back to admire his work. It looked acceptable. His hand reached out, and his fingers traced all the way down the dead girl’s flat stomach to the rift between her legs. Tarik sighed again. A ravishing body squandered, headed to the worms.

  As he finished his work and soaped and rinsed his hands in a basin of warm water, the wall intercom buzzed.

  Moments later, a bulky man with a squat neck appeared, wearing a dark suit a size too large for him. Kiril Tarik was endowed with a dour look as experienced as his father’s.

  “Well?”

  “I told her. She came straight here, Pop. I kept an eye on her in the rear mirror. She’s parking in the lot.”

  “Excellent. Finish the young lady while I see to her.”

  “Sure, Pop.”

  As Tarik Senior turned away from the washbasin and toweled his hands dry, a doorbell buzzed from somewhere out in the hall. He stroked his pencil-thin black mustache and smiled at his son.

  “Time to see if we can bring the dead back to life.”

  30

  * * *

  She was seated in the chapel, facing a coffin on the dais.

  Tarik crossed to her, offering a flicker of a sympathetic smile. She was pretty, with blond hair, wearing jeans and a pastel blue top with a casual woolen jacket.

  “Ms. Kelly. How good of you to come.” He shook her hand, letting hers rest in the gentle grip of both of his, before he slowly released his grasp.

  “I explained to your colleague—”

  “My son, Kiril.”

  “Yes, I explained that you made a mistake. No bodies were found at the crash site. But he said you had a message for me?”

  Tarik nodded politely, taking in her figure, her face, forcing a sympathetic smile. “Yes, I saw the report on CNN and several other stations.”

  “Then what’s this about?”

  “I wanted to tell you that if you have need of my help, please know that I am at your service. I am aware also that the TV news mentioned that your husband was a veteran. We offer special services for veterans—”

  “Let me stop you right there, Mr. Tarik. Did you really call me here to make a sales pitch at a time like this?”

  Tarik felt the sting of the remark and tilted his head a touch sideways, gave that I understand your grief look he often practiced. But really he was trying to see through a crack in one of the chapel’s window blinds. Kiril was kneeling down next to the woman’s car and slid something under the rear driver’s-side wheel well. Kiril stood up at once and walked away, out of sight.

  Tarik’s focus returned to the woman, and he put the palm of his right hand on his heart. “Dear lady, please, I beg your pardon. That was not my intention. I simply wanted to help. You see, I have a long tradition of dealing with members of the military and their families. We offer special concessions, a complete range of additional services at no extra cost to veteran families. I thought you would like to know that. Your military did so much for my country. For that I’m always grateful.”

  “Where’s your country?”

  “Iraq. You helped rid us of that dictator, Saddam Hussein. I once worked with your army as a translator. Many of us who lost loved ones, who suffered during his cruel reign, are forever grateful to America. I simply want you to know that I am here should you require my help. That I would be honored to handle your needs with the greatest of sympathy and compassion.”

  “Yes, I saw that on the card.”

  The woman sounded touchy, impatient to go.

  Tarik reached out a hand and touched her arm in a sympathetic gesture. It had about as much sincerity as a hooker’s
kiss, but he liked to think that a soft touch and a practiced look of sympathy calmed those in need of it.

  The woman gently drew her arm away. Tarik slipped an embossed business card from his breast pocket. “My cell number is on my personal card if you need me. Your husband has been missing a long time, I believe.”

  “Eight years.”

  “My dearest hope is, of course, that you will have no need of my services or those of any others in my profession. That they find your family still alive. The TV news seemed to suggest that may be a possibility?”

  “Did they? I’m not sure what they said.”

  Tarik gave her the look again of fake compassion. “We all have our unquiet ghosts, Ms. Kelly. I honestly pray that you find yours safe and well.”

  The woman looked back at him as if he’d just made an odd remark.

  Tarik said, “A saying in Iraq. During the bad times in our country, so many people lost loved ones who disappeared. We called them our unquiet ghosts. They would never be at peace until we found them. Just as you won’t. I do understand that.” He placed a palm on his heart again. “But forgive me, I won’t detain you any longer. Please accept my best wishes in your endeavor.”

  Her face showed no response.

  “Good day, Mr. Tarik.”

  * * *

  Tarik watched as the woman left.

  Then he stepped into an office down the hall. It was neatly functional, with a desk and chairs, a big, sturdy Centurion safe, gray ­rubber-tiled flooring, and the American flag standing on a plinth in the corner. Peering through the curtain blinds, he watched her drive away.

  When the car disappeared, Tarik stood there a few moments, thinking, before his gaze shifted to the American flag. His fingers reached, and he clutched the material, crushed it into a ball, until his knuckles turned white with rage.

  The door opened, and Kiril came in.