The Art of Death (24 page)
Authors: Margarite St. John
Hiding Places
Monday, July 8, 2013
Steve watched Nettie leave the farmhouse late Monday afternoon and begin walking down State Line Road to her little cottage a quarter of a mile away.
The construction crew had knocked off for the day and Steve was alone. Madeleine was still in California and gave no hint when she might return. He decided to look in on Chester.
Steve had expected to see the old man once in awhile, perhaps taking the air on the front porch or being led to the pickup for a ride, but that never happened. How awful to spend the whole day, every day, confined to a bedroom except for the few occasions when Nettie claimed he was at a clinic or day-care facility. And how in the world did the old man get through an entire night alone? Surely it was dangerous to lock up an Alzheimer’s patient in case of fire but equally dangerous not to ensure his containment in a safe place. So what exactly were the arrangements for his welfare when Nettie and Madeleine were both absent? Nettie refused to say.
Steve found the door key in a flower pot near the porch swing, the same place it had always been kept. In the foyer, he called out Chester’s name, not because he expected a response but just to ensure that the old man wasn’t startled when he entered the bedroom.
But the room was empty. Though it wasn’t dark yet, he switched on an overhead light. He checked the closet and the alcove and the adjoining bathroom. Nothing. Then he looked at the bed again. The imprint of Chester’s body was clear as day on the white bedspread. So where was he?
He then made a tour of the house, the rest of the second floor and then all of the first floor. Nothing. Then he entered the basement, a dark, cool, unfinished space laced with overhead ducts and pipes. The cement floor was cracked. The coal bin was empty but still smelled of coal dust. The dusty shelves for canned goods held nothing but a few small boxes labeled “Photographs.” The old chest freezer was empty. The laundry alcove was ugly but neat as a pin.
Back on the first floor, he stood in the foyer, unsure what to do next. At his age, in his condition, Chester was unlikely to be able to get to the attic, so no point in going up there. Steve went out to the garage. The pickup took up one stall; the next was empty; the third was packed with a lawn tractor, a workbench, lawn supplies, and a big variety of tools. Chester was not in the pickup. The bed cover could not be lifted without a key to open the tailgate, so he couldn’t check there -- but even a dotty old man wasn’t likely to lock himself in a truck bed.
Steve returned to the house and again mounted the stairs to Chester’s bedroom. He sat down in the recliner to think. And then he noticed the window seat in the alcove. Several years before, he’d discovered that the window seat in his teenage daughter’s bedroom was hinged. When he looked inside, he’d found something she meant to keep hidden forever.
He got up, removed a couple of toss pillows and then the long cushion, and lifted the scarred old walnut seat. Nothing but folded fabric, perhaps old drapes or bedding.
He felt look a fool. What was he thinking, checking truck beds, coal bins, chest freezers, and window seats? Chester Appledorn was much less likely to get himself stuck in a hiding place, much more likely to have wandered off.
So he got in his truck and and made ever-widening circuits on country roads, keeping an eye out for an old man tottering about. And then it came to him. Why not ask Nettie directly?
Nettie was not happy to see him. She did not invite him into her cottage but stepped out to her tiny porch. She was carrying a cold bottle of beer. She lit a cigarillo.
“Where’s Chester?” Steve asked without preliminaries.
“Why you asking?”
“He’s not in the house or the garage. I looked.”
With narrowed eyes, she asked what he was doing in the house.
“I went upstairs to check on him after you left,” Steve said. “I started thinking that leaving him alone all night was dangerous.”
“How’s that your business?” Nettie asked, taking a long swallow of brew.
“I suppose, strictly speaking, it isn’t, but he was my father-in-law and I can’t ignore him. How can you leave him alone all night? What if he gets sick or falls down or the house catches on fire?”
“Don’t let anyone fool you with stories of how weak he is. Yes, he’s a shell of his former self. But believe me, that man doesn’t need your help.”
“I still want to know where he is.”
“Ms. Harrod took him to a nursing home in Ohio.”
“When?”
“Weeks ago.”
“But there’s an imprint of his body on the bedspread.”
“So?”
“It looks like he was just there.”
“Mrs. Harrod brings him back for visits.”
“Give me the name of the nursing home.”
“The Holy Ghost Convalescent Home.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” she said with a smirk.
“What town?”
“It’s not in a town. It’s on the outskirts of Dayton.”
“You got an address, a phone number?”
“No.”
“Where’s Madeleine? She calls me practically everyday but won’t tell me where she is other than some place in California.”
“Isn’t she in Indianapolis? She said she had a lot of work to do.”
“Her office doesn’t even know she’s in California, so they know less than I do.”
“Can’t help you, mister.”
“Why do I feel like you haven’t told me all you know?”
“How you feel about things -- that’s your problem. I’m not paid to be a blabbermouth.”
“Is that your military training kicking in?”
She smirked. “You could say that. I’m a good worker because I do what I’m told and keep my mouth shut. Besides, the money’s real good, mister. That’s all you need to know.”
“My name is Steve Wright,” he said with irritation.
“I’ll keep that in mind, mister.”
Roller Coaster
Monday, July 8, 2013
“Come join me,” Brie Dumas called to Madeleine. An actress in her late forties, Brie today was dressed like a rich woman auditioning for a third-world movie: clunky hand-woven sandals, beaded ankle bracelet, gauzy caftan, ropes of dried opium pods and nickel silver bells, shell earrings the size of satellite dishes. Her long red hair was caught behind her ears with a tie-dyed scarf, emphasizing her large brown eyes and high cheekbones. As usual, she was multi-tasking, reading a movie script in between sending long texts to her agent and writing in her journal.
Brie’s imagination intrigued Madeleine. Every day, as if she’d woken up to a completely new life, Brie appeared in a different costume, ready to audition for whatever part might be on offer.
Madeleine met Brie on the third day of her visit to Passages Malibu. Dressed that day like a Fifties’ housewife, the actress was pretty in the taut, tweaked way of the knife-addicted narcissist. But, she was also surprisingly non-judgmental, sweet, and modest.
Her story was familiar but sad all the same. Her long-time partner was a much younger actor whom she met when he got his first movie role opposite her. A few weeks ago, he had suddenly become a goodwill ambassador for the U.N.’s High Commissioner for Refugees. Fired up with resolve to do good on the world stage, he declined a lucrative role in a Ben Affleck film and left their Beverly Hills home, doubtful that he’d ever return. He made her promise, however, that they would remain friends. At that very moment he was in the Sudan investigating rape in refugee camps and preparing to appear with Angelina Jolie before the U.N. Security Council. He sent her an email saying that despite the terrible suffering he witnessed every day and the primitive accommodations he had to put up with himself, he’d never been happier.
Brie was left to tackle problems of her own, which she referred to as the four “A’s”: abandonment, addiction, aging, and asset attrition. She hadn’t appeared in a major motion picture for two years and her partner had left her with a hefty mortgage to pay all by herself. She was frantic to find work. Before that happened, she would need to lose fifteen pounds, stop using painkillers, replenish her wardrobe, and have her throat tightened up, but unless she found work soon, she couldn’t afford more weight-loss and detox programs, the clothes, or the surgery. Tapping Madeleine’s hand for emphasis, Brie warned her to stay well away from Hollywood. When an actress was working, she was exhausted by the long hours, the endless waiting around, the learning of lines. Falling asleep in the makeup chair and losing contact with family were perpetual hazards. When an actress wasn’t working, she was worried to death about securing the next decent role and paycheck.
The two women became instant friends when they compared notes over a gourmet dinner of roasted vegetables. The food, though healthful, was surprisingly good; they vowed to eat better, maybe even become vegetarians. Tai chi was relaxing and graceful, so much less work than yoga or weight-training; they swore to continue it when they left Passages. And hypnosis was strangely pleasant, though whether it was really effective at curing addiction, Brie wasn’t sure. Despite that, she said with a little laugh that she’d try it again when -- not if, but when -- she fell off the wagon.
“I don’t like hypnosis as much as you do,” Madeleine said.
“You don’t? Tell me.”
“I relax way too much and lose control of my thoughts,” Madeleine said. “My filter’s gone. I say things that the therapist says are true -- genuine and authentic glimpses into my soul -- but I know they aren’t.”
“Like what?”
“I talked about the man who’s stalking me -- Captain Ahab; I’ll tell you about him later. I think he killed a childhood friend and my lover.”
“Really? You’re being stalked by a murderer?”
“I know it sounds strange, but it’s true. The hypnotherapist, however, says my stalker isn’t real, just a delusion, a symbol of my guilt.”
“Guilt for what?”
Indignant, Madeleine shook her head. “Good question. He suggested it’s guilt for the bad things I’ve done. But I don’t do bad things.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“Maybe he’s a symbol of survivor’s guilt.”
“What have you survived, Madeleine?”
“What haven’t I survived? Death and divorce
ad nauseum
.”
“I want to hear all about it. Maybe there’s a screenplay hidden in you, one with a good part for me.” Brie wriggled with pleasure. “I can tell we’re going to be great friends. Oh, let me see that ruby ring. That’s fab. I’ve stopped buying jewelry, though. I pretend it’s because I shouldn’t buy luxuries while people are starving, but you know what?”
“What?”
“Because my bank account is way too low for comfort.”
After that first meeting, Madeleine and Brie became great friends, bonding in the way of wounded women sharing pathetic tales of heartbreak and heady dreams of paradise -- tales and dreams that would be forgotten the minute they went their separate ways. They confided details of their lives that even the therapists and psychiatrists never heard about.
Now, almost two weeks after she arrived, it was time for Madeleine to leave. She took the lounge chair beside Brie. “What script are you reading now?” Madeleine asked.
“Oh,” Brie laughed with an enchanting ladylike trill that sounded natural but, she confessed, had taken loads of coaching, “a romantic comedy about an older woman, divorced, who falls in lust with her son’s handsome fraternity brother. At first, she’s reluctant to get involved, but the sex is great and it gives her a new lease on life and pretty soon she’s really in love. Even so, she’s conflicted about moving in with him, not because of the age difference and the disapproval of her son, but because the new boyfriend is the heir to an oil fortune and she’s a successful lobbyist in the green energy movement. I suppose it’s a good part and the politics are right, but I’m afraid of being typecast as the older woman. Still, it’s the best script I’ve read for awhile. How are you doing?”
“This is my last night.”
“Madeleine, don’t tell me that! Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I don’t like long goodbyes. In fact, I don’t like them at all.”
Brie swung her legs off the lounge to face her friend. “Why leave now? I’m here for another two weeks. Stay. Keep me company. What will I do without you?”
“I need to make a living. There are problems at ApEx with the animatronics. My lawyer says there’s an issue about an insurance payout. My second husband claims he can’t do any more work on the farmstead without some personal decisions. . . . I could go on and on. And I miss Daddy. So I’m leaving in the morning. But I have something for you.”
“You do?”
She handed Brie a Tiffany box in robin’s-egg blue. Inside was a silver cherub charm.
“How sweet,” Brie said, a little puzzled.
“The cherub symbolizes new beginnings,” Madeleine explained. “I assume you have a Tiffany bracelet to put it on.”
“Oh, I do. And I love the symbolism. My new beginning.” She hugged Madeleine. “You are the dearest friend. Promise that when I get a part in a new picture you’ll come out. You can visit the set, meet the stars and the director, maybe do a walk-on. Promise?”
“Oh, I promise,” Madeleine said.
“And what will
your
new beginning be?” Brie asked.
“Ah,” Madeleine sighed. “I’d like to get married again. I wanted Anthony to propose but he didn’t and now he’s dead. So maybe I can get my second husband back.”
“I thought you said he was married now, with a child.”
“So what? I can win him over if I try hard enough. I’m much more fun than his new wife.”
“What was his name again?”
“Steve Wright.”
“Mr. Right!” Brie said triumphantly. “His name was a clue all along, wasn’t it? What else?”
“I want my oil paintings to sell for millions, not thousands. I want my toy company to go public. I want to publish a book about my paintings. And I want to be very, very rich.”
“Is that all?”
“And I want Captain Ahab to stop following me. The therapist said I’m suffering from delusions, a dissociative identity disorder. He says my memory was disrupted by the trauma of what happened at the Dunes all those years ago. But I did a little research myself and found out the professionals don’t even agree on what the disorder is. So, what does he know?”
“You’re so smart.” Brie’s expression suddenly morphed from excitement to concern. “But you’re leaving so soon after getting here. Do you think you’re really cured, Madeleine?”
Madeleine matched her expression. “I’m really, really cured.”
At that, they both dissolved into helpless laughter. It was a private joke. Unlike other treatment centers, Passages claimed that addiction wasn’t a lifelong disease but a curable condition. That was exactly what they wanted to believe. But over the last two weeks Madeleine and Brie had traded enough confessions of lifelong problems to know neither had much faith in cures. Why would the future be different from the past?
For Brie, life was eternal treatment, a succession of ashrams and detox clinics, high colonics and hot stone massages, tai chi and hypnosis -- none of which ameliorated a diminishing world of movie roles, suitors, and paychecks.
For Madeleine, life was a rickety roller coaster. In one nightmare after another, the roller coaster caught fire at the very top. When she looked around for help, the dead eyes of Captain Ahab glared right back at hers, drilling her soul. He’d been beside her the whole time. He laughed. She screamed. They struggled. And then she felt herself falling five hundred feet to the ground. Six seconds of hell. Sometimes she woke up in her own bed. Sometimes not.
