Man of Wax (16 page)

I knew exactly what I would find when I stepped inside, leaving the chill of the oncoming autumn evening and entering the chill of oncoming death. Despite the building’s welcoming exterior, inside the air had a stale smell to it, mixed with the bitter scent of disinfectant. Decorations had already been put up for Halloween: orange and black and purple paper ribbons drooped from the ceiling; a large ceramic jack-o’-lantern sat grinning in the corner; crudely made construction paper cutouts of friendly ghosts and witches and scarecrows hung taped to one wall, beneath a large hand-printed note saying courtesy of Miss Thompson’s third grade class.
 

A sign just within the doors reminded guests that visiting hours were until six o’clock. By the grandfather clock in the corner beside the main desk, I had about an hour to get my visiting done.
 

The woman behind the desk looked as if she had another ten years or so before being shipped to a place like this, and she knew it. She seemed pleasant though, smiling up at me from her spot behind the desk. A bowl, filled with silver-wrapped Hershey’s Kisses, was on the desktop next to an upright calendar that presented small Norman Rockwell prints.
 

She asked, “May I help you?” She wore bifocals and slipped them off her face, let them hang down in front of her by the thin chain around her neck.
 

“I’m here to see my uncle,” I said, giving her my best smile. I’d changed my clothes at the gas station, was now wearing the khakis and shirt and tie, all of which were wrinkled but I had on my baggy winter coat so nobody could really tell. I needed the business look to pull off the reason I was carrying the briefcase—a reason that I wasn’t even yet sure about. “Phillip Fagerstrom?”
 

“Ah yes, Mr. Fagerstrom. He’s one of our favorite residents.” She smiled, waiting a moment to let that sink in, as if she didn’t say the same thing about all the residents. Then she tilted her head just slightly and said, “But I don’t think I ...”
 

“I know—you’ve never seen me before. That’s because I’m a bad nephew.” I shrugged, forced a smile. “I live near Philadelphia and hardly ever come out this way. But this week I’ve got meetings in Peoria and decided to make the drive down.” I paused again, watched two nurses as they headed down the corridor, talking quietly to each other. “Look, I completely understand if you want to call him and confirm. I’m Tom Scheffler. Uncle Phillip’s my mom’s brother.”
 

The woman continued smiling, clearly sympathetic with my story. She probably never got any visitors who came from all the way out east to see their uncle they hadn’t talked to in years, and it broke her heart. Besides, if she was sincere about Phillip Fagerstrom being one of their favorite residents, then she’d no doubt be more than happy to assist in the long overdue meeting of uncle and nephew.
 

“He’s on the second floor,” she said, still smiling, but then her eyes shifted away from mine for a moment, giving her the look of someone who has bad news. I asked her what it was. She sighed, looked so miserable for a second, and asked in a low voice, “When was the last time you saw Phillip?”
 

I paused a moment. Shrugged. “At least two years,” I said, hoping that he hadn’t been dropped off here a year ago.
 

The woman looked relieved at once. “So then you know about his ... condition.”
 

“Oh, yeah,” I said, giving another nod, this one much more sympathetic.
 

“Good. Because ... well, it’s gotten worse. I mean, he’s not completely incapable of moving, but he can’t really talk anymore. He can listen—believe me, he can listen—and he’ll be happy to see you.”
 

She told me his room number. I thanked her. She smiled and waved, told me to give Phillip her best, no doubt hoping that when she was eventually stuck in a place like this, one of her long lost relatives would be kind enough to stop by while passing through, to at least show some concern and love for someone who had been put here and forgotten by everyone else.
 

I stepped into one of the two elevators, pressed the button for the second floor, waited the forty seconds or so before the doors opened again and I stepped out. I’d been holding my breath the entire time—it smelled like someone had shit themselves and used it to paint the walls—and I let it out slowly as I started down the corridor. I passed opened doors where Hickory View’s residents either lay confined to their beds, watching Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz or whatever other celebrity doctor was on at this time of day, or else asleep. The smell was even worse up here, that constant scent that precedes death and decay through living tissue.
 

A desk was at the middle of the corridor, just where the one had been downstairs, and behind this a younger woman sat. She looked to be in her thirties, had red hair tied up in a bun, and was typing something on the computer when I passed. Monitors were stacked against the wall, close to the desk, keeping whoever was positioned there an instant update in case one of the residents needed something important, like some pudding or help taking a piss. Other monitors were there too, smaller ones with green moving lines that showed heartbeats and whatever else.
 

“Phillip Fagerstrom?” I said, pointing down the corridor as if I wasn’t sure where I was going, and she smiled, told me which room number, and I thanked her and continued on. Next thing I knew I was standing in front of his room, this man I had never seen a day before in my life. His door was open and he was somewhere inside. It was dark in there, like he had all the lights off, and I wondered what would happen if it turned out he was dead. If his heart had just decided to give out in the last couple of minutes and nobody was aware of it, not even the redhead at the desk, and I would be the one who found him. Would I even say anything? Or would I just leave, let them figure it out on their own?
 

I waited a very long time before stepping inside. I saw immediately that no, he wasn’t dead, and that no, all the lights weren’t off. His TV was on, but it was muted. Dim light bounced off where he lay in his bed as I approached him. Simon had told me to come here, to ask for this man, to come to his room, but that was it.
 

I could barely see him from where he lay underneath his sheet. The urge to turn on the lamp beside the bed was strong, but I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want to touch anything. Not the two framed pictures of what looked like grandchildren—three of them, two boys and a girl—or the American Legion clock. So far there was no physical evidence of my presence here and I wanted to keep it that way.
 

Phillip Fagerstrom finally acknowledged me. His eyes moved slowly from the television to search my face. He’d probably thought I was one of the nurses, or else someone else on staff, and the fact that he couldn’t recognize me must have startled him. But he made no movement, no sound at all, and just lay there staring back at me. The majority of his body was covered by sheets so all I saw was his neck and his face, both wrinkled and gray in the dimness.
 

The cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I let it go on, for some reason thinking it wrong to answer in front of this man. I began to worry what would happen if the woman downstairs decided to make a surprise visit to see how things were going between nephew and uncle.
 

The phone vibrated a fifth time and I pulled it out of my pocket.
 

“Why am I here?”
 

“Well,” Simon said, “that’s up to you. This is where the true reality part comes into play. I’m not forcing you to do anything, not like before. This time I’m giving you the choice. One of the choices is easy, the other is hard. I’m not going to tell you which is what.”
 

I just stood there, waiting. The light from the TV continued to bounce around the room. Out in the corridor, in another room, one of the residents began coughing violently, as if hacking up a vital body part.
 

When I realized Simon was waiting on me, I said, “What are my choices?” My hushed voice sounded strange in the room. Phillip Fagerstrom continued to stare back at me.
 

“First tell me what you think of the old man.”
 

Across the hall, the cougher continued coughing.
 

I whispered, “He looks like he’s almost dead.”
 

“Is that your professional opinion, doctor?” Simon chuckled. “Yes, Ben, he does look that way. He’s had three strokes in the past two years. The last was just two months ago. It’s surprising he’s lasted this long.”
 

“Why am I here?” I asked for a second time. The weight of the briefcase started to become evident again. I wanted to set it down but kept holding it, my sweaty hand gripping the handle tightly.
 

“Remember, Ben, two choices. Either you can place that briefcase you brought with you underneath his bed, or ...”
 

Something told me he had drifted off on purpose, that this was all part of the suspense, all supposed to keep the audience on the edge of their seats. As much as I didn’t want to go along with his stupid tricks, I knew I had no choice, so I said the word he was waiting for.
 

“Or?”
 

“Or else,” Simon said, “you can kill him.”

31

The coughing out somewhere in the corridor had died down. There had been no echoing sound of footsteps, so it was clear the redhead hadn’t come in any hurry to see what was wrong.
 

“If I kill him,” I whispered, keeping my gaze level with his, “then what happens?”
 

“Then you take the briefcase and go on your merry way, off to the next part of the game.”
 

“If I kill him I want either Jen or Casey released. I want them let go.”
 

“I’m sorry, Ben, but where do you keep getting this crazy idea you’re free to negotiate? Didn’t I already tell you negotiating wasn’t an option?”
 

Yes, he had told me that, but I had pulled over and refused to go any farther and he had let me speak to Casey, I had been given the chance to hear her voice for less than a minute.
 

“Well?” Simon said, the grin no longer in his voice.
 

“What’s in the briefcase?”
 

“What do you think?”
 

I paused, as if trying to come up with something, when in reality I’d been trying to guess ever since I placed it on the Taurus’s passenger seat back in Creston.
 

“I ... I don’t know.”
 

“Well, I can definitely tell you that’s not in there. Any other brilliant guesses?”
 

I was silent again. Out in the corridor, that sound came once more, that coughing sound, only now it was very weak, hardly even there. Phillip continued staring back at me. He blinked, which seemed to cause him more trouble than it should have, and blinked again.
 

Simon said, “What if I told you he was a bad person? What if I told you he used to molest children? The police had never been able to figure out who was doing it, the kids refused to tell, and so he got away with it. Would it make it easier then? Could you find it in your heart to rid the world of one more child molester?”
 

“He’s an old man now. It’s not like he’s going to”—I paused, couldn’t bring myself to say the words—“to being doing that anymore.”
 

“No, that’s true. But shouldn’t he suffer for his sins? Isn’t that only fair? Or are you just going to stand by like you did with Michelle Delaney? Just stand by and watch while there’s still the chance to do some good?”
 

“What’s in the briefcase?”
 

“Does it really matter? Does it matter if it’s stocked full of candy canes or if it’s loaded with sand? Maybe there’s nothing in there, Ben. Have you thought of that? Maybe there’s nothing in there at all, maybe the briefcase is just naturally this heavy, and the entire purpose has been to mess with your head from the start.”
 

Actually this last had crossed my mind a time or two during my four hours of driving, but I knew that wasn’t the case. It just wasn’t Simon’s style.
 

“So what’s it going to be, Ben? You don’t want to drag this out too long. Audiences hate it when things go on too long. The world has ADD, didn’t you know? Blame it on MTV if you want. The fact is the average cut in today’s movies is three seconds. The same goes with TV. Books with shorter chapters are bestsellers. Is it all a coincidence?”
 

This wasn’t the first time Simon had gone off on a tangent and something told me this wouldn’t be the last. He liked hearing his own voice as much as he liked hearing my silence when he asked his unnerving questions, but I didn’t mind letting him ramble now. Because now I had a difficult decision to make, though in the back of my head I wondered just how difficult it really was.
 

“What you said this man did,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “it’s all a lie, isn’t it.”
 

“Well of course it is. But just because I made it up doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. For all either of us knows—for all anybody knows—this man has molested children before. Maybe even worse. Why don’t you ask him? Maybe he’ll want to confess before he dies.”
 

Without wasting another moment I stepped forward. Phillip Fagerstrom’s eyes widened just a bit as I approached, but I stopped only a few feet away and set the briefcase down. I mouthed
sorry
to him, not quite sure why I’d done so (even now I’m not sure), then turned and headed out of the room. In my ear Simon was chuckling.
 

“I see,” he said. “Are you sure you want to do that, Ben? Now’s the time to take it back.”