Neal grinned. ‘Not to me.’
‘And the words, they’re clear?’
‘Like crystal.’
‘But still there’s a fundamental problem. Like a dog talking to a cat. Like different languages.’
‘But related.’
‘Definitely related.’
Neal nodded. ‘It happens. Between people. Communication difficulties.’
‘All the time,’ said Michaels, taking the card from me and tearing it in half. ‘It’s just a card, for chrissake. Anyone can make a card. What you should be looking at is the deliverer. Look at me.’
I did, and what I saw was not what I expected. His eyes held a depth I hadn’t seen before. They were warm, and, dare I say it, friendly.
I was almost taken in. ‘You want me to trust you? Is that it?’
‘Sure I do. Who doesn’t want that?’
‘Good cop, bad cop.’
He looked chagrined. ‘Larry’s not bad.’
I gave Larry a glance. ‘He’s not exactly reassuring.’
‘Vive la difference. And we’re not cops.’
‘Excuse me. Federal agents.’
‘You have a suspicious mind, my friend.’
‘You make me suspicious. With all your questions and innuendoes. And your stupid cards.’
He considered this for a moment. ‘The cards, perhaps, were a mistake. I apologize.’
I nodded at the one he held in his hand, torn in half like a losing lottery ticket. ‘How do you expect a person to react to that?’
‘It’s a problem, I admit.’
‘Those letters . . .’
‘We should change them,’ said Neal.
Michaels agreed. ‘We should. They’re not what you think.’
Neal said something in a rapid, fluty voice, like birdsong.
‘That’s how it sounds in the native tongue,’ said Michaels. ‘Or how we think it did. It translates roughly into “Friends of our Deceased.” ’
The ‘F’ was right, but the ‘O’s and the ‘D’ were nowhere on the card. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’
He shook his head. ‘We’re not.’
‘Friends of our Deceased.’
‘F – O – O – D,’ said Neal. ‘Maybe we should put that.’
And I thought, are you dumb or something?
Neal smiled at me. ‘Pretty dumb idea, huh?’
I stared at him. ‘What native tongue?’
Michaels said a word I hadn’t heard. ‘It’s more or less extinct.’
‘What the hell is it? Friends of our Deceased?’
He rattled off some names, two or three I recognized as friends or acquaintances of my father.
‘It’s a group?’
He thought for a second. ‘Sure. A group. You could call it that.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Why this.’ He gestured, as though it were obvious.
‘What?’
‘Visit people.’
‘You visit people.’
‘Sure. And talk to them. Help out.’
‘That’s it?’
‘We do other stuff too.’
‘Like what?’
He looked apologetic. ‘We don’t usually talk about that with outsiders.’
‘So it’s a secret group.’
‘Not secret. Private.’
‘And my dad was a member.’
He seemed to understand how this might be troubling to me. ‘I’m sure he was a member of other groups too,’ he said gently.
This was true. He was a member of a number of groups. And maybe some, like this one, I didn’t know about.
‘So you’re here on behalf of this group. To help me.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Fair enough. So tell me this: how is it going to help me for you to see my father’s bones?’
‘We can help you decide what to do with them,’ he said.
‘Do you have a way to cremate him?’
‘No. We don’t.’
‘Then I don’t think you can.’
He protested, as did Neal, and repeated their request to see the bones.
I had this to say: ‘The message I left. The one you didn’t get? To cancel our meeting today? Maybe it was a bad connection. You didn’t hear it right. The words were garbled. Maybe you didn’t understand.’ I paused, expressing my regret. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You’re not.’
‘If you give me a number – maybe one that’s more reliable – I’ll call you if anything new comes up.’
More protests, but I was done. Neal didn’t take it well. He issued various veiled and not so veiled threats, but he had no power, as it turned out, legal or otherwise, to back them up. Michaels was more resigned, as though he half expected this. He handed me a new card, this one with his name on it. He lingered a moment, then suddenly and without warning reached out and gave me a hug. He said my father would be proud of me. He said to call if I changed my mind. Then he and Neal left.
I saw my mother later that day. She lived on the other side of town. Ash was in the air and on the ground, floating like snowflakes and stirring around my feet like dust. The heat and smoke were insane. Traffic was light, proving that people can, if they put their hearts, minds and souls to it, use common sense. I would have liked to use common sense too, but mom and I had some things to discuss, and the phone just wouldn’t cut it. This had to be face-to-face.
She had made iced tea, a drink best taken outside, but we stayed in the kitchen. She wore shorts and a blouse and no makeup. Her cheeks were naturally pink, her eyes naturally large and dark, her face unnaturally drawn. The first order of business, to show that the world had not come to a halt with her husband’s death and that she was okay, was to complain about her hair. This she did more by gesture than by word, grabbing it, scowling, looking annoyed and exasperated, shaking her head. She hadn’t been to the hairdresser since the week before he died. Initially, she hadn’t wanted to, and then it didn’t seem proper.
‘It looks fine,’ I told her, for which I received a look that said ‘Are you an imbecile? Who raised you because I know it couldn’t have been me.’
‘I made an appointment for Saturday. Do you think that’s all right?’
‘Sure.’
‘Really?’
‘Mom. You’re the widow. You get to do what you want.’
‘I don’t want to offend anyone.’
She did have the power to offend, typically with her tongue, and usually without meaning to, or even knowing. But maybe now that dad was gone and she was alone, things would be different. The fact that she was concerned enough to mention it was a positive sign.
‘Look how much you’ll offend people if you don’t get it done,’ I pointed out.
‘Really? It looks that bad?’
‘It looks fine. You have beautiful hair.’ And she did, salt and pepper and spry, at the grand old age of seventy. I felt a wave of affection for her and planted a kiss on her head.
‘How are you?’ she asked, relaxing a little.
I mentioned the fires, which she hadn’t been following. News and current events were not at the forefront of her mind.
‘How awful,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘So far.’ It was a thoughtless reply, and I regretted it instantly. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Your father would have left.’
‘They’re not advising us to. Not yet.’
‘There was a big fire here . . . god, it must have been nearly thirty years ago. You were a baby. They weren’t telling us to leave then either, but he packed us all up and took us to a motel.’
Playing it safe . . . this sounded like dad.
‘Once we were settled in and he was sure we were okay, he drove back and helped fight it.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Dad did that?’
She nodded, and her eyes shone. ‘Your father was full of surprises.’
‘Wha
t else?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever they do. Hosed things down. Dug things out. He came back and got us in a couple of days.’
‘I mean other surprises. What other ones?’
‘Oh, that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘A surprise birthday party for me. A surprise vacation. He loved planning surprises. And keeping them to himself. He prided himself on that, and with good reason. I can’t remember a time he gave a secret away.’
She paused, smiling at something.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I was thinking about you. You were another surprise your father gave me. Completely unexpected. I was forty-two. Who would have thought? But what a gift. Really. What a miracle. The best ever.’
The memory of it lingered on her face. Tenderly, she asked if she could fix me something to eat. I wasn’t hungry, but she opened the refrigerator anyway. Within seconds, she was scowling.
‘Why do they keep bringing me things? It’s such a waste. All this food. I wish they’d stop.’
‘Mom. Come sit. I have something to tell you.’
Her face became utterly still. ‘What’s the matter? What’s wrong?
I coaxed her beside me, then told her about the remains. She was puzzled at first, as if she didn’t understand what I was saying. I had to tell her again, then test her further with the small detail that no one had an explanation. She wasn’t happy with the news – who could be happy – but, leave it to her, she wasn’t derailed.
‘Call someone else,’ she said.
‘I did. They won’t take him. Not the way he is.’
‘What does that mean?’
It meant that word had gotten around. That no one thought they could do any better. No one had offered to try.
‘It means I want to talk to you about alternatives.’
She folded her arms and pressed her lips together, girding herself.
‘I want you to consider burying him.’
In the past two weeks she had lost weight. There were hollows at her temples and in her cheeks, making her eyes, which were large to begin with, more striking than ever. And those eyes regarded me, and it was a wonder I didn’t turn to stone.
‘Just consider it. Not necessarily do it. But think about it.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Why not?’
‘We discussed it already. I don’t want your father somewhere in the ground. I don’t like it. I’ve never liked it. Okay?’
‘Things have changed. We have to change too.’
‘Not in this.’
‘Mom. Please. Be reasonable.’
She looked at me, and slowly her face softened, and I felt the change that every child feels, or longs to feel, and maybe sometimes fears to feel, as her attention shifted from herself to me and her motherliness took center stage.
‘You’re upset. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I wish there were something I could do.’
‘You’re not upset?’
‘It’s your father,’ she said, as if this explained everything.
‘Is it?’
‘He can be difficult. You know that. And stubborn. Lord, I never met a man so stubborn.’
And I thought, was that what this was? A character trait?
‘I learned long ago not to argue with him. It only makes things worse.’
‘So what do you suggest we do?’
‘Explain to me again why they can’t . . . why he won’t . . .’ She couldn’t quite finish the sentence.
‘No one could tell me. No one knew.’
‘Well maybe we should find someone who does. A bone specialist.’
‘A doctor?’
‘Why not?’
Coming from her, this was a remarkable – really, an extraordinary – suggestion. The woman had a lifelong distrust of the medical profession, rivaled only by her deification of it. And sure enough, a moment later she reconsidered.
‘Well, some kind of expert.’ She paused to think. ‘Maybe Adolph.’
‘Adolph?’
‘You know Adolph.’
‘Adolph Krantz?’
‘Why not? He went to college. He studied chemistry. He’s a smart man. And he was very fond of your father.’
I hadn’t seen Adolph since I was a boy. He was one of my father’s oldest friends. I didn’t see how he could help, but if my mother thought he might, it was worth a try.
‘If I talk to him, will you listen to what he has to say? Will you take his advice, even if it’s different from what you think? From what your mind is set on?’
‘He wrote a very sweet note.’
‘Will you?’
‘He’ll get a kick out of seeing you.’
‘Mom.’
‘You’re pestering me.’
‘Will you listen to him?’
She didn’t say no, I’ll give her that. ‘Talk to him. Let’s see what he says.’
There was one more item, which was apt to upset her, though with mom you never knew. The smallest thing could cause the biggest reaction, and the biggest, she could take in stride. As it turned out, she didn’t know either of the men, nor the group which they claimed to be members of. But she wasn’t particularly alarmed or surprised that they knew my dad. He and she shared many of the same beliefs and memberships, but not all. And in the interest of marital peace and harmony, some things they kept to themselves.
I asked if Dad ever seemed strange to her.
She laughed. ‘Your father? Very odd. But you get used to it. Look, we were married forty-three years.’
‘How?’
‘How what?’
‘Was he odd.’
‘You knew your father. He had his way of doing things. It wasn’t my way. Which, as you know, is perfect.’
‘Did he ever seem different from other people?’
She gave me a look. ‘You ask the weirdest questions. Of course he was different. Everybody’s different.’
‘I mean different from normal. Different in some other way.’
The look narrowed. ‘What are you driving at?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Then let me tell you something. Your father was an exceptional man. He had his quirks . . . who doesn’t? But when it counted, he was always there. For both of us. If you have any doubts about that, my advice to you is, don’t.’
I didn’t have doubts, not about that, and for her the conversation was over. I had some food, which always made her happy, agreed to take some home, which made her even happier, kissed her goodbye and left.
The men visited me once more, this time in a dream. They were dressed the same, but they looked different. Their faces were rubbery and their arms and legs were long and loose. They moved like seaweed underwater, like eels, like smoke. I couldn’t take my eyes off them . . . I think maybe they were hypnotizing me. I wanted to be with them, but they were underwater and I couldn’t breathe. I tried to go after them, but I could hardly move. And my chest was starting to hurt. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t get any air. I tried and tried, but something was blocking my windpipe. The men were watching without emotion, while I was suffocating. My chest was ready to burst. Which is how it must have felt to my father the night he was hospitalized. He couldn’t breathe either. It’s a terrifying feeling. Thank god, I awoke.
The person who invents the twistless, tangleless, knotless sheet will be enshrined in the Sleepless Hall of Fame. Along with the one who invents the sweatless, soakless, self-cleaning pajamas. What did this dream mean? Aside from the fact that I was afraid to go back to sleep. That these men were not what they seemed? No surprise there. That I felt threatened by them? I did feel threatened. My heart was racing. But why?
Eventually, I did get back to sleep, a very light and fitful one, as I tried to strike that hopeless balance between vigilance and repose. I woke tired and grumpy, with the sense that something had to be done and the desire that someone would do it for me. After a strong cup of coffee, I was ready to take action myself.
I hadn’t seen Adolph Krantz since I was a child, and I’d never been to his home. He lived outside a small town a couple of hours north of me in an old ranch house in a quiet neighborhood of parched fields and beautiful, stately oaks. The air was dry and caustic with smoke when I arrived. A cinder, or even the thought of a cinder, and the house, and everything near it, would be toast.
I parked at the curb, passed through a chain link gate and up a cracked concrete path to the front door. I rang the bell. After a minute I rang it again, and at length the door opened.
An old man peered out. Day old whiskers, hawk-shaped nose, boxy black-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes two or three-fold, a flurry of white hair.
I gave him my name.
A moment passed, and then he offered his hand. ‘I’m Krantz. Call me Adolph. I was sorry to hear about your dad. Come in.’
He led me inside, moving slowly but steadily, down a hall and into a small, paneled room full of books and odds and ends. There were two leather armchairs facing each other across a chess board. Only a few pieces remained in play.
He took one of the chairs. ‘Do you play?’
‘I know how the pieces move. That’s about it.’
He studied the board for a moment, then leaned forward and advanced one of the pawns. ‘Your father never liked the game. Though he’d play if I asked him to, back in the day. He hated this part. Endgame. Too slow for him. Not enough action.’
He pointed to a pawn on my side of the table and asked me to move it. He studied the board a minute or two more, and satisfied, sat back and studied me.
‘You look like your father. You have his eyes. People used to say I looked like him too. To me that was a great compliment. I admired him enormously. There’re not a lot of us left.’
‘Us?’
‘That’s right. Hardly any.’
‘What do you mean “us”?’
‘The gang. The tribe.’ He paused. ‘What did we call ourselves?’ He couldn’t remember.
‘FOOD?’ I ventured.
‘What about it?’
‘Was that the name?’
He gave me a look. ‘Food?’
I nodded.
‘What kind of name is that?’
I told him what it stood for, at which point, I believe, he ceased to take me seriously.
‘You’re needling me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Your dad used to needle.’
The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories Page 12
