The Remains (25 page)

Throwing the automatic transmission into
drive, she said, “I’ve had a lifetime of protecting Francis from
vultures like that.”

For a moment I was reminded of Franny’s
upcoming cable television debut. But I thought better of mentioning
it now.

While she motored the truck out past the city
limits, over the South Troy Bridge and along Rural Route 2,
Caroline brought me up to speed on a few developments that had
transpired over the past twenty-four hours.

First item of importance was that Robyn had
been transported to her mother’s home in the Albany suburbs where
she continued to recover. Silently, I brooded over my best friend
and partner not having called or come to visit me. But then, I knew
something about post traumatic stress. I knew about wounds that
change a person, make them withdraw—wounds that even time couldn’t
heal. Caroline went on to say that the FBI still had no clue as to
the whereabouts of Robyn’s attacker, and in all likelihood would
not until someone either caught him in the act, or was able to make
a positive ID in a line-up.

The next item was very important; it was
believed that traces of Whalen’s body were uncovered in the deep
woods not far from Mount Desolation. Having been left to the
elements and the animals, his body was assumed to be badly
decomposed. Specifically recovered were several bones that might
belong to his right hand. Not even the press was aware of the
discovery since the remains were now arriving at the FBI forensics’
lab in Albany for DNA verification.

“Is Mr. Whalen dead now?” Franny asked, his
eyes staring out the windshield onto the pine tree-lined road.

I took hold of his hand, held it.

“Yes Franny,” I said. “You don’t have to
worry.”

“What if he’s not dead? Does Mr. Whalen come
back for us?”

I’m not sure if it was a conscious move, but
Caroline tossed me a tight-lipped glance. I knew what she was
thinking without her having to say it. That all DNA tests aside,
until Whalen’s entire body was uncovered, she would not believe he
was dead.

Neither would I.

I spent
another full week at the Scaramuzzi’s farm recovering from my
wounds. Exactly two weeks to the day he was murdered, Michael’s
body was released for burial. It took some effort, but as a part of
his eulogy I read a few pages from the
Hounds of Heaven
and it didn’t surprise me one bit that not
a dry eye could be found inside St. Pious Church—the same church
where we buried Molly and my parents all those years
ago.

After the church ceremony, I rode to the
cemetery in the front seat of Caroline’s truck (Franny was allowed
to stay home and paint by himself). While a handful of us
surrounded the gravesite, the priest said a few more prayers on
Michael’s behalf. The day was cold and blustery. When we set red
roses on his casket the red petals shivered in the wind gusts.

As the service came to an end and everyone
scattered away from the grave, I stood alone with my husband. I
told him I loved him. I thanked him for what we had during the
final week of our lives together. I set a hand on my belly, told
him I’d take care of our son for us. I didn’t know for certain I
was going to have a boy, but whenever I tried to picture the baby
inside of me, I saw a little Michael.

While Caroline stood waiting for me by the
open door of her truck, I felt my husband’s loss like a person
might feel a limb that has suddenly been amputated.

“I’m sorry we ever left one another,” I said,
brushing away a tear from my eye. “I will always love you and I
will always love our child.”

When I walked away from the grave I knew it
would be a long time before I returned to the cemetery.

CAROLINE AND I DIDN’T say a whole lot on the
way back across the river to Rensselaer County. I had assumed we’d
drive straight to her house for the small reception she was putting
on for those who’d attended the funeral. Instead we took the long
way around the backside of Mount Desolation. When she pulled off
the main road onto an overgrown two-track, I turned to her.

“Where are you taking us?”

“Closure.” She smiled, as the truck shook and
lumbered to and fro. “I can’t think of a better place for it to
happen.”

The two-track was hardly even a two-track
anymore; it was covered with so much growth. We must have driven
two miles before we could go no further. Not without getting the
truck caught up on some heavy rocks that blocked the parallel
tracks. Obstacles no doubt placed there by Whalen himself.

Caroline got out.

“We walk from here,” she said.

But before she got out, she reached into my
purse.

“I’m doing this for you,” she said, her eyes
locked onto mine. When she pulled out my old copy of ‘Mockingbird’,
I had no idea what she had in store for it. Nor did I ask. I just
slipped out, shutting the door behind me. That’s when I saw her
reaching into the truck’s cargo bed, where she picked up an old
metal gasoline can imprinted with a yellow and black Sunoco logo on
its side.

“Let’s go,” she ordered, that same subtle
smile painted on her face.

To some of the animals who watched us from
their hideaway dens, we must have been some kind of sight. Two
grown women, dressed all in black, making their way through the
woods, one of them still sporting a heavy cast on her right hand. I
almost felt like laughing. Instead I just kept quiet and followed
Caroline for the thirty minute walk into the dark woods.

I’d never before come upon the front of the
old Whalen house. I’d always approached it from the backside. As we
emerged through the woods, I felt that familiar pressure in the
stomach; the organ slide in my intestines. My eyes gazed upon the
warped and mold-covered roof shingles, the gray-brown siding, the
decayed and now completely detached front porch. I eyed the picture
window, the glass now shattered and leaving only jagged edges. I
imagined that at one time it would have offered a view of a front
lawn, two little children playing on it. A boy and a little girl. I
imagined a mother looking out the window onto the children, maybe
while she dusted the furniture, while a stew or maybe a chicken was
cooking in the kitchen.

But then I pictured that boy having grown
into a teenager. I pictured him walking into the house late one
night, a shotgun in his hand. I saw that boy moving methodically
from bedroom to bedroom until his horrific deed was done.

Without a word Caroline stepped onto what was
left of the front porch. The gas can and my old novel in hand, she
raised her right leg like a woman thirty years younger, and kicked
the door in. Proceeding under the plastic police “crime scene”
ribbon, she entered into the place and disappeared. Maybe three
long minutes later, she reemerged with that old Sunoco gas can in
her hand, the metal canister appearing far lighter than it had been
before she’d entered the house. Setting the can onto the porch
floor, she pulled something from the pocket of her black pants.

A book of matches.

Striking the match, she set the entire book
on fire and tossed it into the open front door. Casually, as if
she’d only set a bundle of red roses on the porch floor, she picked
the can back up and made her way back to me. By the time she
reached me the fire was already visible through the open door.
Moments after that, the entire first floor caught fire.

It didn’t take long for the whole place to go
up in flames. I felt the heat on my face and I eyed the bright
orange fire and I felt my hatred and fear melt out of my pores like
candle wax.

Taking hold of my hand, Caroline kissed me
gently on the cheek, setting an open hand on my belly.

“We should get back to Franny,” she said.
“He’ll be worried.”

I turned and never looked back.

THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up inside my
apartment alone. It was the first night I’d spent there since the
events of the past few weeks had transpired; since Michael died. I
didn’t sleep very well that first night, but then I didn’t sleep
poorly either. Since the thirty year anniversary of Whalen’s
attacks on Molly and me had passed, I was no longer plagued by
nightmares. But that didn’t mean I was feeling bad on the inside so
much as I felt very much alone, even with Michael’s beret stuffed
under my pillow.

With Michael gone and with Robyn eyeing a far
longer emotional recovery than her physical wounds would ever bear,
I had some serious decisions to make.

Would I go back to my teaching job at the art center? Would
I continue to live in this apartment? Would I sell off my parents’
house and the three-hundred acres that went with it? Would I move
away from Albany?
Maybe make the forever dreamed about move to New York City?
Would I ever return to my art?

One thing was certain: I had a baby to think
about now. Where to raise him and how to raise him would be of
prime concern, which pretty much meant that my NYC residency might
have to be put on hold once again.

No one should raise a child in the city,
Michael used to say.
Unless they’re filthy
rich.

I can’t say that I disagreed with him. He was
still the baby’s father, no matter what.

First things first, I jumped back into my
routine. I made the coffee, poured a glass of juice, and took my
vitamins, which now included prescription prenatals.

I poured a small bowl of Shredded Wheat and
two percent milk. When that small meal proved not to cut the
mustard (I was eating for two now), I took advantage of Caroline
and Franny’s having kindly stocked my fridge and shelves with food.
I got the frying pan out and lit the gas stove. Setting my open
hand on my growing belly, I realized how famished I truly was.

I set out to make a big breakfast.

First I cracked two eggs into a bowl; beating
them smooth along with a dab of milk, some salt and pepper. Then I
added a teaspoon of salted butter to the pan. With the butter fully
melted, I added the blended eggs into the pan, cooking the mixture
slowly over a medium flame.

When the eggs were lightly cooked some two
minutes later, I slid them out of the pan onto a white dinner
plate. In the fridge I dug out some Green Mountain salsa and some
grated Munster. Using my fingers I spread some of the cheese onto
the steaming eggs. Last but not least, a big glass of OJ on ice. I
was so famished that I ate the food right there, standing inside
the kitchen.

I was setting the dishes into the sink when
the buzzer sounded. It wasn’t unusual for the maintenance crew to
be making inspections of one kind or another, especially on a
Monday morning. But instead of buzzing the person in, I made the
cautious decision to make my way out my front apartment door and up
the steps to the door of my building. Through the glass I spotted a
man wearing a FedEx uniform, behind him the still running,
orange-on-white FedEx van. The man held a clipboard in one hand and
a small package in the other.

The package was a standard eight and one-half
by eleven envelope. I couldn’t imagine what anyone wanted to send
me that was so important it had to arrive via FedEx. But I signed
for it anyway, and took the package with me back inside the
apartment.

In the kitchen, I tore the envelope open and
peered inside. There was a photograph that was paper-clipped to a
letter. Pulling the letter out, I could see that it was a
handwritten note from Detective Harris. The attached photo was the
black and white shot of Molly and me; the same one to be further
examined by print specialists in Albany. The note was a simple
one.

It said,

Dear Rebecca,

Whalen’s prints were nowhere to be found on
this picture. Neither are Francis Scaramuzzi’s. Still awaiting
results from Albany regarding bone samples taken from woods around
Mount Desolation.

Take care of yourself,

Harris

So that was it then.

Neither Whalen nor Franny had been in
possession of the photo after all. I could only guess as to how it
had gotten on the front porch of my parents’ house. If Whalen or
Franny hadn’t placed it there, then who did?

Exhaling a breath, I pulled a magnet from off
the fridge and set the photo under it. It was the only photograph
that occupied the fridge. Tossing the FedEx envelope away, I
grabbed my new cell phone, bringing it with me into the bathroom
where I set it down onto the sink. I started the shower, letting
the water warm up and the bathroom fill with steam. Although I had
no definite plans, I would start the day by paying a visit to
Robyn. As poorly as she was feeling, I knew that a little visit was
always good for cheering her up.

Inside the bedroom, I took my pajamas
off.

Standing before the Ikea body-length mirror,
I stared at my stomach. Maybe I was only a little more than a
couple of weeks along, but I swear I was beginning to show the
first signs of a belly. It made me feel good to know that the baby
was inside me, growing. Soon I wouldn’t be alone. Soon I would have
all the companionship I needed. It would come in the form of a
small bundle of boy-joy.

Stepping
out of the bedroom, I made my way back into the kitchen where I
placed a plastic shopping bag over my cast-covered right hand and
secured it with a rubber band from out of the junk drawer. In the
bathroom, I pulled back the curtain and carefully stepped into the
hot shower. It was the first shower I’d taken inside my own
bathroom in what felt like ages. I felt the good, hot water seep
into my skin. I felt it seep into the flesh
under
my skin. I felt it heal the many wounds I’d
received up on that mountain and down inside the stone basement of
that house in the woods.