by S. W. Capps
Staring at the fresh-made bed, he reached in his pocket to retrieve the note—ICU ROOM 305. He walked back to the door, pulling it open to check the placard.
“Can I help you, sir?” He turned to see a candy-striper in the hallway.
“I’m here for Helen Zwardowski.” She glanced at the flowers, then at the distant station, a doctor and nurse huddled in conversation. “I’m her son,” Stacy added.
She cut her eyes to the room. “You can wait inside.”
Confused, he watched her leave, then headed back in. The room felt warmer than before, light glowing orange in the corner, clock ticking noisily on the wall. He could smell disinfectant, taste his own saliva. The door wheezed open, a young intern stepping in. “Mr. Zwardowski.” He waited for the damper to close. “I’m afraid your mother has died.”
The words rendered Stacy powerless. As they dug their claws into his brain, the sights, scents, sounds—every sensation in the room—melted away like hot wax, leaving a black tingling nothingness behind.
From the void, an image emerged—his mother, young and alive, hair blowing in the Newport breeze. “These things happen,” the doctor explained. But Stacy didn’t hear, the sound of the sea filling his ears, his mother’s smile illuminating the darkness. “…first event caused paralysis…” She looked down at her son, taking his little hand. “…blood clot from the heart…” They walked together, barefoot in the sand, waves tickling their toes. ‘Look what I found, Momma!’ He handed her a seashell. “…second stroke proved fatal.” She smiled, humming a forgotten lullaby, her voice drifting off in the wind. “Mr. Zwardowski?”
Stacy blinked, the image gone, gray light from the window replacing it.
“We’re sorry for your loss. Stay as long as you need to.”
As he turned to go, the candy-striper returned. “These are your mother’s things.” Stacy stared at the box, still unable to speak. “I’ll just set them on the bed for you.” She tried to smile, but the effort failed. A moment later, she was gone.
He stood for a long time, not trusting his legs. Finally, he moved to the bed, staring at the items in the box. His mother’s coat. Her worn leather purse. And an address book, one of her famous notes acting as a bookmark. He didn’t need to read it. He already knew what it said. WORK HARD. FOLLOW YOUR HEART.
The words seemed empty now.
As did everything else.
His mother was gone. And he’d never see her. Never hold her. Never hear her voice again. A tear streaked down his cheek, followed by another. As the flowers hit the floor, he grabbed her coat and clutched it to his chest.
“Goodbye, Momma.”
***
He grabbed the mail, shoving the key in the lock. It felt strange to be back in Oklahoma. Strange to be anywhere, if he was being honest.
There’d been no funeral—his mother didn’t want one—just a simple burial at a cemetery he’d never heard of. The funeral home provided a bouquet, Dick Wilhelm a handsome wreath. Stacy had read something once—the ancient Greeks buried their dead with a coin to pay the ferryman. Helen Zwardowski was buried in her nurse’s uniform, taking nothing with her but the ring on her finger.
There wasn’t much else to take.
Stacy had spent three days cleaning out the little house, adding a handful of things to the box from the hospital. Everything else was sold—the furniture, the car, the rest of his mother’s clothes. He wasn’t sure why she bothered with a will. The boiler-plate document took seconds to read, the lawyer charging for an hour.
Juggling everything, he pushed his way inside. The place looked the same as it always looked, the air smelling of last week’s dinner.
But it wasn’t the same. Nor would it ever be.
Setting his things down, he sorted the mail—a few bills, some ads, another rejection. Normally, there’d be disappointment, relief…something. Today he felt numb. As he tossed the letter, a strange thought struck him—this was home now.
Stacy moved to the window, forcing it open. A gentle breeze licked his face. A bird sang on the horizon. He moved to the answering machine, hitting PLAY. Four messages—one from Katie, one from Toole, two from Julius, each offering condolences.
He hit the ERASE button, creating silence. Total silence.
As he surveyed the room, he wondered what to do next. There was no manual for this sort of thing, no handbook on how to go on after losing your best friend. He stared at the box, the Underwood, the framed photos of his parents—they looked like items plucked from a shipwreck.
Something fluttered to his left, a northern cardinal lighting at the windowsill. The bird stood motionless for a time, locking eyes with Stacy. A minute passed, then another. He half-expected the bird to speak.
Instead, she sprang from her perch. And soared to the heavens.
Stacy rushed to the window, scanning the empty sky. Knowing she was gone, he swallowed hard. “Fly with the angels, Mom.”
***
Marv Bridges stared at the card, reading what he’d written —Sorry for your loss. Over time things’ll get better. He thought about leaving it at that. But not much, he added, signing it at the bottom.
“He’s not Jake, you know.”
Bridges turned, his wife peering over his shoulder. She wore a faded dress and no makeup. “Never said he was.”
“Well, you act like it.” She walked to the table and dumped a load of laundry.
“The kid just lost his mother, Kaye. I figger the least I can do—”
“Now there’s something you’re an expert at—the least you can do.”
He tried to laugh it off. “Look here, woman—”
“What about my loss?” she cried, Bridges flinching. “You ever think about that?”
He waited a long time, then, “We both lost a son.”
“I’m not talking about Jake.” The man stood. “I’m talking about you, Marv!”
“Me?” She nodded, her eyes racked with pain. “I ain’t gonna listen ta this.”
“Yes, you are!” She cut him off as he turned for the door. “You’re going to listen to every damn word!”
“But we been through this.”
“No, we haven’t. Not together.”
“What’s that s’posed ta mean?”
She stared at her husband. “You haven’t dealt with Jake’s death.”
“Oh, really?” His expression changed from angst to outrage. “An’ you have?”
“No.” She filled the void between them. “I haven’t dealt with it either. Because I can’t do it alone.”
“Last I checked, I been here every day, same as you have.”
“You haven’t been here a single day since Jake died!”
“Well, if ’at ain’t the biggest buncha—”
“Is it?” Her stare cut to the bone. “Then tell me something. When’s the last time you took me out to dinner? Or bought me flowers? Or talked to me about anything other than work?”
“If ya don’t wanna hear—”
“It doesn’t bring him back! Can’t you see that?”
They stared at one another, his wife waiting for a response he couldn’t give.
“You’re a caricature, Marv. You put on the same face, day after day—the happy-go-lucky undersheriff. But you’re dead inside.”
“C’mon, Kaye, ya don’t mean that.” He raised his beer as a peace offering, trying to elicit a smile.
“I don’t want your beer. I want your attention. Your anger once in a while. I want you to feel something! Because I need someone to talk to. Someone to make love with.” She paused, her face wet with tears. “I need the man I married!”
For a long time, Bridges said nothing. Finally, “I ain’t that man anymore.”
“But you could be,” she pleaded. “We just need some help.” She reached in her pocket. “I got a number off the TV…a grief counselor…here in Avalon—”
“I ain’t goin’ ta no shrink!” He moved to the hallway. “What’s he gonna say anyhow? ‘In order to deal with your loss, M
r. Bridges, you need to talk about your feelings. Starting with what it felt like when you got the phone call. How bad it hurt when you saw the body. And how much you miss him every single day. When you can do that, Mr. Bridges…well, then everything’ll be A-okay.’” He turned to his wife, skin redder than the blood beneath it. “Well, it ain’t okay. It ain’t never gonna be okay. I lost a son, goddammit! My only son. An’ I ain’t never gonna fish with ’im again. Or watch ’im play football. Or give ’im a damn hug. He’s dead, Kaye! An’ you’re right about one thing…” He narrowed his gaze, fighting the emotions he’d worked so hard to bury. “I died right along with ’im.”
***
“Sorry about your mom, Stacy.” Toole raised his cigarette and puffed. “Sometimes life can really fuck you.”
Stacy nodded, still in a malaise.
“We’ll ease you back in today. No live shot. Just an interview with the chief investigator.” Toole reached for the folder on his desk. “Not sure if you heard, but we had another fire. The old hospital. Place hadn’t been used in years, but there was talk of renovation.” He chuckled, handing off the script. “Nothing to renovate now.”
Stacy skimmed the text, the story well-written but over the top. “Who did this?”
“Bartell covered the story. I wrote the copy.” He fished out a newspaper article. “You can pull more details from this. The angle’s simple. Just tell the viewers where the investigation stands.”
Stacy stared at the newsprint. “Do you think all these fires are connected?”
“I’d bet my life on it.” He handed Stacy the folder. “Roy Maghee’s meeting you there. Who do you want on camera?”
“Julius.” The response came without thought, the reporter turning to leave.
“Oh, and Stacy…” He looked back, still in a funk. “…I really am sorry.”
As he left the office, he bumped into Thad. “Glad to see you back from vacation. Most of us had to wait a year till we got a week off!” The man walked away, waving to Randy up the hall.
Stacy turned, seeing Julius for the first time. The cameraman moved toward him, eyes glistening. He didn’t say a word. He just extended a hand, Stacy taking it.
The drive to the scene was a quiet one. As Julius steered, Stacy reviewed notes. The fire had started at three in the morning, the building vacant. Based on the script, Channel 8 had captured more amazing video, Toole’s words describing the scene in vivid detail—AS THE ROOF COLLAPSED, A GEYSER OF FLAMES BURST INTO THE SKY.
“Check it out, dude.” Stacy looked up as Julius pulled to the curb.
“Jesus…” They’d passed the old hospital a hundred times. Even empty, it was an impressive structure, the mayor calling it the ‘most advanced facility in Texoma’ when it opened in ’37. Now it looked like a burned casserole. “This is the worst one yet.”
The scene reminded Stacy of his own life—an appropriate first story back.
Julius set the brake, both men grabbing gear. As Maghee moved toward them, he finished off a cigarette. He knew the old hospital well. His mother had worked here for twenty years, a supervisor in the burn unit. As a youngster, he’d witnessed firsthand what fire could do to people. He watched nurses scrub wounds. Listened to patients scream. “Heard about your mother. I’m sorry.”
Stacy thanked him—word traveled fast in a small town. “This shouldn’t take long. Tell you the truth, my heart’s not in it.”
“Understandable. I lost my mother ten years ago.”
He’d lost his father, too. Roy, Sr. was a decorated firefighter, his name appearing in numerous headlines. For pulling a woman out of a burning house. For saving a child from a frozen pond. And finally, for dying in a warehouse fire. A greedy landowner had set the blaze for insurance money. The act claimed the life of a father. And set a son on the dogged path of arson investigation.
The only thing Roy Maghee hated more than fire… was the person behind it.
“You ready?” Stacy looked at Julius.
“Already rollin’.”
“Sir…” He turned to Maghee. “…where are we in the investigation?”
“Still interviewing witnesses. Looking at similar cases.”
Stacy checked his notes—nothing was flowing today. “What have you found?”
“Burn patterns indicating point of origin in an attic crawl space. We also have evidence of ‘non-accidental’ cause.”
“Can you share that evidence?”
“I cannot.”
Stacy didn’t feel like pushing. “Last question, this is the third suspicious fire in as many months. Is there a common thread?”
The investigator glanced at the camera. “Can you kill that thing?”
Julius powered it down.
“In the process of researching the properties, I found an interesting denominator.” He lit a cigarette. “But I need you to promise me this is off the record.” Stacy promised. “All three buildings were raised by the same construction firm.”
“Wilhelm & Son?” Maghee looked surprised. “When we did our town history pieces, the name Wilhelm & Son cropped up again and again.”
Maghee nodded, having done the same research. “As I mentioned when we spoke last, it behooves us to work together. I think you can help me on this case.”
“But how—?”
“It’s no coincidence these fires involved Wilhelm & Son buildings. These are revenge crimes. Someone’s out to get Dick Wilhelm. Someone who wants to snuff out every legacy of the family name left in Texoma.” He paused to flick ash. “Do you know anyone who hates Wilhelm that much? Anyone who’s been wronged, punished, or fired unjustly over the last few months?”
Stacy’s eyes moved to Julius, suddenly at war with his own thoughts. Helping a law enforcement agent went against everything Toole preached. He looked to the charred earth, then back at the investigator. In the smoke-tinged breeze, he heard his mother’s voice, “Follow your heart.”
He smiled, the first in a long time. “How big a list do you want?”
Chapter 9
April 1988
(NEWSWIRE): REAL ESTATE MOGUL DONALD TRUMP TELLS ‘OPRAH’ HE’D WIN IF HE RAN FOR PRESIDENT ... EX-DEPUTY PRESS SECRETARY LARRY SPEAKES ADMITS HE MADE UP QUOTES FOR REAGAN ... GUNMEN HIJACK KUWAITI AIRLINER, HOLDING 112 HOSTAGES, KILLING 2
“Are you thinking about your mom, sweetie?”
Stacy blinked—for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t. He looked from the ceiling to the woman beside him. “How well do you know Phil Twitchell?”
Katie sat up in bed. “If you’re insinuating that we slept together—”
“No.” He wasn’t insinuating that at all. “It’s just…” He hesitated, wondering if he could trust her. “…do you think he’s capable of violence?”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
He took a deep breath, then shared Maghee’s theory with her. “He thinks it’s Wilhelm they’re after. And that’s why they’ve targeted the buildings.”
“But Wilhelm had nothing to do with the construction business.”
“I know that, but Maghee thinks they’re after the name.” He shoved a pillow under his arm, leaning forward. “I did some research last night. There are sixty-four Wilhelm & Son buildings in Texoma…well, sixty-one now.”
“And you think the arsonist is picking them off one-by-one to hurt Wilhelm?”
“It’s not my theory. It’s Maghee’s.”
Her expression turned cold. “And you think Phil—?”
“I’m not accusing anyone, Katie. But you said yourself, Phil was a ‘complete basket case’ after Wilhelm fired him.”
“Of course, he was a basket case. He just lost his job! That doesn’t mean he’s capable of burning down buildings. Think about it, Stacy. He doesn’t even live here anymore!”
“Well, he owns a car, doesn’t he?”
“I’m not going to listen to this!” She hit the remote, a late-night replay of the Great 8 newscast piercing the darkness. “There’s no way on
earth Phil Twitchell—”
“I didn’t say Phil did it. He’s just on the list.”
She turned, Toole’s image flickering in her eyes. “What list?”
Stacy hesitated—he hadn’t planned to tell her, but there was no turning back now. “When I…interviewed Maghee…he asked for a list of names…you know…people who might have an axe to grind with Wilhelm.”
“And you gave it to him?” He nodded. “Have you not listened to a single word Larry’s said over the past six months?”
Stacy’s abashment turned to anger. “Since when does Larry Toole have all the answers? Since you became his precious co-anchor?”
She ripped back the covers and stormed to the bathroom. As the door slammed, he looked to the TV, a two-dimensional Katie looking back. “Joining us with tomorrow’s pinpoint forecast is Great 8 Meteorologist Thad Barker.”
He stared at the screen, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. Before tonight, only one person—Julius—knew about the list he’d given Maghee, a list that included such names as Terry Perkins, Darryl Rogers, and Terrance Meeks.
He realized now, the fewer people who knew about it, the better.
“Nothing but clear skies, Texomaland. A great day for some fun in the sun!” As the weatherman and his cohorts swapped pleasantries, Stacy heard coughing in the bathroom, followed by a flushing toilet.
When the door opened, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
***
Crisp winds blew out of the north, a moist breeze from the southeast. As dark clouds gathered, Stacy could almost taste the faraway Gulf.
“One last question, Mr. Bitner.” Today’s story, ‘Are Farmers Worried About Drought Conditions?’, seemed silly with a storm brewing, but that was the assignment. “What would a drought mean to you personally?”
Clay Bitner looked to the parched earth, his fifty-acre parcel sown for peanuts and cotton. “I got me a wife and three kids,” he responded. “Without these crops, I can’t feed m’family.” A dog barked in the distance—the farmer had tied it to a post when the newsmen arrived. “A drought’d ruin us.”
