Dead Money (23 page)

I could feel the people around me, shifting uncomfortably. I had trouble breathing. The pain was in my lungs, my throat. I gasped the words: Melissa. What did you do?

A woman kneeled, put her arm around me. I felt her body against mine, soft beneath the lab coat. It felt good. Real. Corporeal. But not enough. Nothing would be enough. My breathing slowed. The pain began to ebb. But not completely.

I knew that it was there to stay.

The guilt made way for anger. What did you do? What did you do to me? What did you do to Kelly? My God, Kelly! Where was she? I stood up. Where’s my daughter? Before the words were formed I saw her, head in hands, in the armchair across the room. I went to her, leaned over, kissed her forehead. She looked up. Her eyes were red. Her face was swollen, yellow.

The pain came back in force.

To see my angel child in such a state.

THEY TOOK MELISSA AWAY
. They took their pictures first. Put bits of things in plastic bags. Marked them up with black indelible pens. Asked me question after question. I answered. I was polite. But I didn’t, don’t, remember one thing I was asked. One thing I said. I was on automatic pilot. I was busy building walls. The only thing I wanted was my Kelly in my arms. They kept taking her away from me. To ask her questions too.

I just wanted them all to leave.

When they finally did, I put my arms around Kelly. We were both too tired and numb to say a thing. I fell into a sleep, as deep and dark as black on black. I did not dream. I did not think.

That’s what nirvana’s like, I think the Buddhists say.

I never wanted it to end.

But of course it did. Light came through the curtains. I woke up. My stomach hurt. Another day to face. I had no choice. I had to face it. For my angel child, if nothing else.

And there was precious little else.

They’d taken Melissa to the morgue. I supposed normal people called their friendly neighborhood funeral director. Or something. Somebody.

I didn’t.

Melissa had no family, no friends to call.

And anyway I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.

I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

I slept.

I woke.

Damn it. They were going to cut Melissa up. Cut her into little pieces. Recite her bits and pieces into a handheld tape recorder. Collect them, bag them, test them. Defile them. Put them all back into a pile. Sew it back inside of her.

I couldn’t stand the thought of it.

I called the coroner’s office. I asked for Dr. Nathaniel Jones. The Chief Medical Examiner. I knew him only well enough to nod at in the hallway. I don’t know what I thought I was going to accomplish, talking to him. I wasn’t thinking much, really. Action just seemed better than sitting and thinking. Brooding. Imagining. Any action. Action to push the darkness away, if only for a little while. To give me time. To give me time to wash it all away. To dull the edges.

Dr. Jones was not a friendly man. He was a tall ungainly thing with a peculiar crown of white hair that gave him a Caesarean air. He never smiled. Never reacted to anything, beyond a small twitching at the corner of his mouth, a slight frown at the corners of his eyes. I could picture him sitting imperially at his desk as he took my call.

Once he was on the line, I had no idea what to say.

I’m Richard Redman, I said.

Hello, Mr. Redman, said Dr. Jones.

My wife died yesterday.

Ah, yes. I’m so sorry for your loss, said Dr. Jones, without a hint of conviction.

I guessed he said that a lot, in his business. It got to be a chore. A bore.

I paused.

He cleared his throat.

Have you begun an autopsy? I asked.

Not yet.

Good.

Good?

Because I don’t want one.

Pardon me?

I don’t want one.

I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand what you’re saying.

I don’t want an autopsy.

There was a pause. Dr. Jones cleared his throat again.

Mr. Redman, he said, I have the utmost respect for your feelings. But I’m afraid that this is not an issue that it is in my power to decide. Nor is it yours. This is a matter for the police. The District Attorney.

A deep-seated anger arose in me. The numbly bureaucratic mind at work again. It was everywhere.

Listen, Dr. Jones, I said. She didn’t believe in it. She didn’t believe in funerals either. Or services. She just wanted to be cremated. Right away. Cast to the winds.

Right away? he asked. Is this a request she put in writing?

No. She’s my wife. She was my wife. I know what her feelings were.

Well, Mr. Redman, I understand. I understand. I’ll have someone call you.

The simmer turned to a boil.

Someone call me? Aren’t you the one in charge of the bodies down there? Who the hell are you going to have call me?

I’ll have someone call you, Mr. Redman. Good day.

Click.

I sat back. I got up. I paced back and forth. I felt like a jerk. Why had I done that? I hadn’t the slightest idea what Melissa’s beliefs were about funeral arrangements. It was me. I was trying to burn it away. Purge the guilt. The deadening sorrow. The responsibility. Jesus. Wasn’t there more I could have done for her? All along the way? Yes. Of course there was. Every step of the way. Seen it coming earlier. Battled it more. Loved her more. Mostly that. Got out of my goddamn own mind a little more.

I went into the kitchen. I got some ice. I took the talisman from its
sacred niche. What the hell. Might as well put it to good use. I poured myself a tumblerful. I drank it down.

It was eight-thirty in the morning.

The phone rang. It was a Detective Harwood. I didn’t know him. He wanted to come over for a chat. Sure, I said. Come on over.

I hung up the phone. Oh Christ, I thought. What have I done? They think I’m trying to dispose of the evidence. But how could they? Who in their right mind would be so stupid as to call up the coroner’s office to ask them to assist in disposing of the body? I laughed a small dry laugh. Me, I guess. I could see their thinking. A man consumed with grief can do some irrational things. Or a man consumed with guilt.

Harwood was an older guy. Short. Balding. Rumpled. A guy who’d been around. He wasn’t the bullying type. More the sardonic type. He’d seen it all. He wasn’t taking any shit. He asked a lot of questions. I answered them. The theme was pretty basic.

Where was I that night?

In the bar. Then home. In the house with the deceased.

Had I had anything to drink?

Lots.

Drugs?

No.

Any arguments recently?

No. We hardly talked.

Really?

Yes. She was a recovering alcoholic. And pills. Whatever. She didn’t have much to say these days.

He perked up at that.

Who was the last person to see her alive?

Me, probably.

Interesting, I could hear him think. Very interesting.

He warmed up as we went on, though not a lot. He can see I’m not the type, I let myself think. Maybe I’m acting like you’re supposed to act. Whatever that is.

But he never lost his wary, cynical air.

The questions went on too long. He asked the same question one too many times. I lost my temper, just a bit.

Listen, I said, I know you’ve got a job to do. But it’s an overdose. It’s been coming for years. Anybody who knew her can tell you that. Talk to
her doctor. She wanted to die. She couldn’t handle living. It was just too much for her. I’m not saying I can tell you why. I don’t know why. And I should have known. I should have found out. But I didn’t. And now she’s gone. It’s bad enough. Can you just leave me alone now? Please?

Mr. Redman. I understand that you’re upset, he said calmly. But we have to follow procedures. We have to establish the cause in the proper way.

Establish the cause? Come on.

You never know, Mr. Redman. Death is a funny thing.

A laugh a minute, I said with a sneer.

He looked hard at me. I backtracked.

I’m sorry, I said. I’m a little emotional.

I could feel his distrust fill the room. Like carbon monoxide. Silent. Odorless. Deadly.

I could understand it. I knew that whatever I’d been feeling inside, however normal I’d been acting, no grief, no weakness, beyond that brief flash of anger, had made an appearance. I should have been reacting more, I supposed. Hysterical. Crying. Defying the Gods.

But my stony demeanor meant nothing. It’s how I deal with adversity.

I knew that. But he didn’t.

I wasn’t about to tell him, either. You don’t say that kind of thing to a guy.

My throat constricted. I had to hold inside the twelve emotions that competed for attention.

Harwood asked a few more questions. Wrapped it up. Gave me one last searching look. Left.

Finally.

I poured myself another Scotch.

I drained it down.

It felt awfully good.

It was ten o’clock in the morning.

I began to understand Melissa a little better.

I SLEPT A LOT
. Sunday morning came. I found myself staring blankly at the toaster. I didn’t know how I’d gotten to the kitchen.

There was no way I was going to get through this without Sheila.

I made the phone call. For the first time, I paid attention to the triage of numbers. I called the red alert one. A service answered. The voice was flat. Uninterested in my problems. We’ll pass the message to the doctor, it said.

I got lucky. Sheila called me back within the hour. I told her I had an emergency. Had to see her. No, I didn’t want to tell her over the phone.

I guess she heard it in my voice. She asked me to give her half an hour. Meet her at her office.

She was in her recliner.

One thing in life, at least, I could count on.

I told her that Melissa had died. I filled in some details. I didn’t tell her everything. I didn’t tell her about Harwood. I didn’t tell her about the night before.

Oh dear, she said more than once. That’s terrible.

I didn’t feel better.

Of course I wasn’t going to feel better, right away. It was a process. I had to go through it. Blah, blah, blah.

A long silence.

There’s something I’ve always wanted to talk to you about, Sheila said.

Okay, I said.

I’d like to talk about why you married her.

I stared at the air conditioner behind Sheila’s desk. I looked at the clock above it. It sat next to a book.
The Challenge of Pain
. Ronald Melzack. I almost laughed. It was about physical pain, though. I’d read it once. In college. I didn’t remember much about it. One idea was that pain was not some absolute, measurable thing. Everyone felt it differently. I looked back at the clock. Still twenty minutes left. Shit. I didn’t want to be there.

Which was strange. Normally I wanted to stay as long as possible.

Things were different, now.

I looked at Sheila.

Why you married Melissa? she reminded me.

I’ve often asked myself that question, I said.

You have?

Yes. Mostly because …because when I think about it, I don’t really know her. I didn’t really know her. I’ve never really known her. At all.

You knew enough to marry her.

I knew I loved her.

Yes. And maybe that’s enough. But as I recall, you hadn’t even met her parents.

That’s true. I still haven’t. She wasn’t speaking to them.

Or any other members of her family.

If any. She never mentioned any others.

You don’t even know where she was from, do you?

Illinois, I think. Or Indiana. Something with an
I
.

Ithaca?

Could be.

That’s sort of my point.

I get your point. But what’s the point? Of your point.

Don’t you think it’s a little unusual?

What’s unusual?

To marry someone you know almost nothing about?

Unusual? Probably. But I’m an unusual guy. I kind of like that about myself.

You are. And there’s nothing wrong with that. In itself. I’d just like to explore this particular aspect of your …difference.

Explore away.

Did the thought ever occur to you, any time before the marriage? That maybe you should know a bit more about her?

No. I mean, I don’t think so. I was never so terribly close to my own family, you know. Of course you know.

Yes, I know that.

She just made me feel so good.

In what way?

I remember the nights in her apartment. It was tiny. Just enough room for a bed and the TV. And a small bedside table. And the kitchen, at the end of the room. The window looked out onto a brick wall. Two feet away. And it was always overheated. The apartment. So we took our clothes off. As soon as we got there. And lay on the bed. And drank wine. Cheap wine. But good wine. Stuff I hunted up. An unknown Rhône or
two. Some esoteric stuff from Spain. And smoked cigarettes. Listened to Tom Waits. And I would read her poetry. Mine. T.S. Eliot. Dylan Thomas. Stuff that moved me. And it would move her. And her skin was so soft. And I’d think, This is what heaven must be like. Really. That’s what I’d think. That’s how it felt. I know it sounds stupid.

No, it doesn’t sound stupid. It sounds sad.

Sad? How does it sound sad? Is going to heaven sad?

Not if it really was heaven. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t sustainable.

Well, you’ve got that right.

The pursuit of bliss.

Yes.

That’s what it is.

Yes.

But bliss is not for us.

Us mortals.

No. Bliss is for the Gods.

Yes. I know. I know.

I hung my head. What a fool I was.

We had it for a while, I said.

Yes. And then?

Yeah. Then. If it wasn’t hell, it was a reasonable facsimile.

That’s what it is, you see? Pleasure and pain are relative concepts. If you weren’t capable of that bliss, you’d never know it. And you’d never feel the pain of its absence.

Sure, but what’s the point? We should all live within a tiny emotional range? B to C? No high Fs? Now that’s a life worth living.