Mr. X (95 page)

“No offense, sir, but this smells worse than that,” one of the cops said.

In the lead, Clark intoned, “You fellows may be ignorant of
what can happen to the human body when it is left to its own devices. Be grateful you still have your health.”

“Why did she put him in the attic?”

“I guess she thought he’d be safe there,” I said. “She had a special bed made for him. You’ll see.”

Clark opened the door, and we trooped in. The cops walked around the body and wrote in their notebooks.

“She died in the commission of an act of human kindness,” Clark said. “That was her way.”

“Chicken noodle soup,” said one of the cops. “This isn’t any homicide, but we’ll have to wait for the M.E. to make it official. Is that the bed you were talking about, sir?”

“She put up the plywood to keep him in,” I said.

They stared down into Mousie’s crib and looked at Clark. He saw an occasion to which he did not doubt his ability to rise.

“The woman stayed by his side night and day, ministering to his needs as best she could. The tragedy is, the day before yesterday we found a placement for Clarence at Mount Baldwin. I believe the shock of his imminent departure was a factor in Joy’s demise. Clarence was her life. Boys, always remember to display affection and regard for your wives. A woman needs that kind of thing.”

“If I come down with Alzheimer’s, I hope my wife won’t dump me into a plywood crib,” said one of the cops.

“An act of the purest tenderness and love,” Clark said. “You may get an idea of the man’s stature when you hear that it was Mrs. Rachel Milton who arranged for his placement at Mount Baldwin.”

The cops glanced at each other. “Let’s wait downstairs,” one said.

Clark excused himself to tell his wife what had happened. They came out onto their porch before the medical examiner drove up in front of Joy’s house, and they crossed the street in time to hurry up the walk behind him. It was the same weary man with mushroom-colored skin who had released Toby Kraft’s body to the police. I was standing outside, and the two cops loomed in the doorway. Nettie caught up to the medical examiner and squared off in front of him. She looked like a mountain with a reputation for rockslides. “Have you come to examine my sister’s body?”

“That’s my job,” he said.

“I trust that you will conduct your business in a respectful manner and allow us to deal with my sister’s departure as she would have wished.”

“Mrs. Rutledge, you will probably get what you want. I’m here to pronounce your sister dead and rule out the possibility of foul play. But to do that, I have to go into the house.”

“Am I in your way?” Nettie asked.

One of the cops told the M.E. that the body was upstairs. He turned to Nettie. “How do you account for the odor in this house?”

“Clarence, mainly,” she said. “Once his mind faded, his personal hygiene was a matter my poor sister addressed as best she could. The rest of it comes from the refuse my sister accumulated in her kitchen, which is in a sorry state.”

“That’s not a garbage smell. Did your sister have problems with groundwater in her basement?”

“Doctor,” Nettie said, “these two handsome young officers are waiting to assist you.”

The M.E. stepped backward, nearly bumped into me, and murmured an apology. The smirking cops led him up the stairs.

Nettie sidled up to me. “You did the right thing, son.”

“I hope so.”

“My sister’s child claimed her energies from the moment the poor thing first drew breath. Joy sends you blessings for giving Mousie a decent burial. I hope you’ll be coming back to see us on a regular basis.”

“Aunt Nettie,” I said, “don’t pay too much attention to anything you read about me in the papers. The stories will die down when Stewart Hatch goes on trial.”

Footsteps descended, and the M.E. came toward us. Nettie took my arm and lifted her chin to stare him down. “Later today, Mrs. Rutledge, I will make out the death certificate, naming heart attack as cause of death. You are free to make any arrangements you wish.”

“Thank you,” Nettie said, glacially.

“Was Mr. Crothers an unusually small man? A ‘little person’?”

“Not at the height of his powers,” Nettie magnificently said. “Illness robbed Clarence of his physical stature in a manner cruel to behold.”

The M.E. dodged around her and left the house. Nettie directed
her commanding gaze upon the policemen. “You young men have been a great help to us in our time of sorrow. It is a comfort to me that gentlemen like yourselves have devoted your lives to public service.”

A minute later, one of them was on the phone to Mr. Spaulding while the other stood guard at the door.

“Should I stick around for another day or two?” I asked.

“I’m thankful you could spend so much time with us,” she said. “And you rescued our pictures! That takes a great weight off my mind, Neddie. Make your travel arrangements, and be sure to keep in touch.”

“Take care,” Clark said. “There’s not but a few of us left, now Mousie’s in his grave.”

134

The sky had disappeared above Cherry Street. A wet, silvery mist coated my windshield. I sent the wipers back and forth and cleared two transparent semicircles onto a street visible enough for driving.

Back in my room, I charged a seat on a 6:00
P.M.
flight from St. Louis to New York, giving me more than enough time to lose my way and find it again. After that, I called the rental agency to say that I would be returning their car to the airport in St. Louis with a damaged rear end. A supervisor with the manners of a prison guard put me on hold while he wrangled with the office in St. Louis, then came back on the line and said, “You’ll get away with it this time, Mr. Dunstan. When you drop off the keys, leave the details of the accident, the name, address, and telephone number of the other party and the name of his or her insurance carrier.”

“You can get that information from Stewart Hatch,” I said. “He got drunk and backed his Mercedes into the rear end of your Taurus.”

“The surcharge for nonlocal return will be fifty dollars,” he said, and hung up.

I called the airline and upgraded my reservation to first class. According to C. Clayton Creech, I had at least ten million dollars, and what was good enough for Grennie Milton was good enough for me. My companions in first class were going to love my pink jacket, and they give you an extra bag of pretzels up there at the front of the plane.

135

A few ghostlike relics wandered through the fog thickening on Word Street. The neon stripe of
HôTE PARIS
tinted the cobbles a soft, slippery red. I threw my bags onto the backseat and got behind the wheel. At Chester Street I turned north, thinking that eventually I would see a sign to a bridge across the Mississippi and the highway to St. Louis. Before I reached College Park, the buildings on either side had retreated into vague backdrops, and the headlights of oncoming cars were like cats’ eyes. I remembered Mousie’s teeth rising into the pillow, and I saw inky flak bursting within the bands of deep red glowing across his abbreviated body. The dirty spiderweb that body had become, the bowling-ball weight of his head in the pillowcase. The empty expanse of the Albertus campus slid past my car on what seemed the wrong side. I kept driving. I had not turned, therefore I was still going north and following the river as it wound toward St. Louis.

Then I remembered that Chester Street became Fairground Road when it crossed into College Park, and Fairground Road did not go past Albertus, it came to an end at the southern boundary of the campus. Somehow, I had managed to circle around and drive south on an unknown street. Albertus had not shifted its geography, I had shifted mine. Fortunately, I still had hours to get to St. Louis. All I had to do was turn around.

Mousie’s pillowcase landed softly, although not softly enough, at the bottom of the hole in Joy’s neglected garden. I heard it hit the ground, and thought about the words I had spoken over Mousie’s grave. They had not been the right words. Mousie deserved better from his murderer. Mousie had been one of the real
Dunstans—Clark had told me that I was turning into a real Dunstan, but I was nothing compared to Mousie. Mousie was up there with Brightness and Screamer. What leaked from the cannon’s mouth and the crack in the golden bowl was a being like Mousie. Howard had known it, and the knowledge had poisoned him.

I could not see where I was, and I could not tell where I was going. Looking for a familiar name, I bent over the wheel and peered through the windshield. Ten feet beyond the front of my car, the green banner of a road sign materialized out of the opacity and advanced toward me. A runic scrawl slipped behind me a moment before it would have become decipherable. No matter, I thought: I was still going south when I wanted to go north, so all I had to do was turn right, or west, on the next street, then right, or north, at the one after that.

Two more indecipherable road signs floated past, and I was headed north, moving parallel to the river. In my mind, I could see a map of the Mississippi and the towns in Missouri and Illinois on either side. I was looking for Jonesboro, Murphysboro, and Crystal City. North of Crystal City lay Belleville, only a little way from East St. Louis. The fog would lift; even if it did not, eventually I would drive into clear air. As long as I kept moving, I was making progress.