Little Falls, page 29
I return to my office and place Gary’s passport, money, and cell phone in my pocket. Sensing that the end is near, I squat along the edge of the plastic tarp on the floor and begin to roll it up. I do the same with the tarp on the desk where Gary face-planted. Once I have the plastic tarps in a bundle, I stuff them into two separate bags and replace them with unused tarps that were rolled up in the corner of the room. Satisfied that I have successfully recreated how I found the room, I direct my attention to the portrait of my partner in crime still leaning against the wall. Crouching down, I grip the frame and lug it up. The picture feels like it weighs a ton and I cannot believe that I was able to hold it for any length of time, not to mention to swing the thing. I move in short stutter steps across the office, bracing my core, until I have it positioned beneath the reinforced hook jutting from the wall. I bend down and pull it off the ground, pressing it against the wall for support. Fearing that I may drop it, I lean the frame on my knees, which creak in protest as I struggle to catch my breath. With a bestial grunt, I raise it up and manage to snag the picture cord on the hook just before my strength gives out. The portrait swings back and forth, only settling in place when I place the palm of my hand on the frame to steady it.
As I’m about to drape the canvas covering on top of the painting, I notice crusted blood on the side of the frame, which I clean with the disinfectant wipes. I am able to remove the rust colored areas but the wipes leave the corner of the frame burnished. Accepting that this is the best I can do, I slip the canvas sheet back over the portrait and step away. After checking the room a final time, I place the medical waste bags in the tray under the stretcher, pull out the identification tag and begin to fill it out. On the line for name I write: John Doe. I check off the boxes: Internment at Municipal Cemetery and Cremate. I end by scribbling an indecipherable signature below it and fasten the tag to the body bag.
Gary, one last journey.
CHAPTER 57
I decide to wait until 3 am, when the hospital is truly a ghost town, before venturing from my office. It was stressful enough trekking from the morgue to my office while transporting an empty stretcher, but now that I have a corpse zipped up in a body bag, the stakes are even higher. Any encounter with a member of the hospital staff will result in an unsettling inquiry for which I have no reasonable answers.
I retrace the path to the freight elevator, continuing at a cautious pace. Peeking down each hallway before rounding the corners, I arrive at the elevator without detecting the faintest inkling of a threat. The cabin is empty and once aboard I take the slow ride down the ground floor, taking care to wedge my body near the button board to shield myself from view in case someone happens to be walking by once the elevator door is open.
I lean into the handle and set the stretcher in motion pushing it into the empty hallway. The stretcher, weighted down by the lifeless body of Gary, is considerably harder to control then before, and despite my best intentions to maintain a steady, measured pace, I cannot restrain my desire to return to the morgue as quickly as possible. The stretcher begins to build up speed and I battle to keep it straight. Instead, it weaves erratically down the hall striking the walls. My eyes dart back and forth. Either nobody hears or cares. I am able to right the ship and rush to the entrance to the morgue, pull the handle, and enter.
I have never been so happy to be in a morgue in my life. Truly. I make beeline for the metal door leading to the refrigerated area. Grasping the handle, I give it a good yank. I am rewarded for my troubles with a refreshing blast of cold air. The room is empty except for a single stretcher covered with a white sheet raised in the shape of a human torso. I shove my stretcher forward until it slides next to its neighbor. Before departing, I remember to remove the bags of medical waste from the storage tray beneath the stretcher. I remain by the door as I grip the inner door handle, my eyes settling on the two stretchers a final time before shutting the door behind me.
I have one critical, final task: the disposal of the medical waste bags. I head straight to the waste disposal room next to the loading dock and toss the evidence of the crime in an oversized red biohazard trash bins. It strikes me how fortunate I am. In any other setting the discarding of blood-soaked items would undoubtedly raise suspicion that some horrible transgression must have transpired. Case in point, if a patron encounters bags of bloody towels stuffed into a garbage pail in a fast food restroom, you can rest assured that the police will be notified. Hospitals are unique. Bloodied garments, gauze, and tissues are our everyday business. What’s more, Little Falls Hospital has a system in which these contaminated items are regularly removed and disposed of. The medical waste is gathered in receptacles like the one in front of me, picked up daily, and transported to a central waste-processing center where they are autoclaved, sterilized, or incinerated. Any DNA evidence that is soaked into the items will be eliminated.
I am wrecked by the time I return to my soon to be ex-office. I sluggishly march through the doorway and muster the last ounce of energy left in my body to restore Claire’s skewed desk to its previous position. The sight of the half-filled cardboard boxes nearly knocks the wind out of me. I had nearly forgotten why I had come to the hospital in the first place. I kneel, spent, beside my desk and begin to indiscriminately transfer the remaining items in my desk drawers. My lower back is pulsating by the time I have completely emptied the drawers and file cabinet. Unable to fathom the prospect of carrying the boxes to my car, I leave the office and locate an wheelchair abandoned in the lobby. I stack the boxes on the seat until they reach nearly four feet in the air.
The clock on the floor reveals that it is nearly 5 am, and I worry that if I don’t get some caffeine in my system there is a very real chance that I could collapse. I take the staircase up to the cafeteria, every step a lumbering achievement. Blurry eyed, I run the palm of my hand against stubble on my cheek as I stagger into the cafeteria. As my vision comes into focus, I can see Clifton Parks frozen at my usual table staring out the window into the early morning darkness. I had not even thought of the prospect of running into the old guy in the morgue. It was a huge oversight made moot by a simple stroke of good fortune. Staring at the back of Clifton’s head, I stroll over to the vending machine. After retrieving a steaming cup of black coffee, I don’t bother to even put a lid on it before bringing the scalding liquid to my lips and taking a sip. The coffee burns the tip of my tongue and slides down my throat like molten lava. Grimacing, I waddle over to the edge of the table Clifton is sitting at, my thigh muscles cramping like a son-of-a-bitch. Clifton mechanically turns my way..
“Hi, b…b…boss. You’re here earl…ly.”
“Yeah.” I take another tentative sip. “Just needed to clean out my desk. Can’t believe it is my last day.”
“You…you…b…be miss…missed…b…bo…boss.”
I produce an appreciative smile.
“Hey, Clifton. On the way up, I ran into one of the nurses. She was transporting a Jon Doe down to the morgue. Thought you should know.”
“OK, muni is coming tod…day for another gg…guy. They can take…take him too.”
I reach out and squeeze Clifton’s shoulder affectionately. I grip sinewy muscle and bone.
“Clifton, it has been great working with you.”
Through his masked expression I can sense that Clifton feels touched.
“You…too.”
I hold the coffee cup in my hand and make to leave. As I near the doorway, Clifton sputters.
“Boss…b…boss.”
A wave of apprehension washes over me, prompting me to hesitantly turn back.
“Have a b…bbb…bless…blessed day,” Clifton spits out.
I stare into space.
“You too, Clifton. You too.”
CHAPTER 58
Once the boxes are squirreled away in my trunk, I drive down Hospital Boulevard, taking a final gander at the hospital in the rearview mirror. The ‘L’ in the hospital’s sign has gone out completely. I blankly drive around Little Falls without purpose, unable to return to Ashbridge just yet. The caffeine in my blood stream, although making a valiant attempt to free me from an all-consuming stupor, is failing miserably, and I nearly nod off several times. I ease the car beside a wooded area and drift off to sleep.
When I wake, the sun is peaking over the horizon and filling the cabin of the car with hazy glow. I look around trying to figure out where I am before spotting a overgrown sign marked “Trail to Little Falls” a short distance from my car. I pop the door open and stagger out before bracing my body against the side of the car. I need to see it. Stepping onto the trail, I begin to hike up the rocky terrain wishing that I had not worn my dress shoes. I continue to press on, fighting to keep my exhausted body upright, as I rise higher and higher into the woods. I stop beside a large pine tree to catch my breath and gaze into the distance catching sight of the hospital towering over the town like a sentinel. What am I doing? Absent-mindedly I slip my hand into my pocket and come away with Gary’s cellphone and passport. I had completely forgotten about them. They feel radioactive in my hand. I so want to rid myself of any vestige of the man and the memory of what has occurred, to finally move on once and for all. I continue my ascent, ducking beneath branches and swatting away pine needles until I hear a faint rustling noise up ahead. I must be close. I take a breather and sit on a large boulder, returning the passport to my pocket. I hesitate with Gary’s phone and instead of putting it back in my pocket deposit it on a flattened portion of the boulder and go in search of a rock. I locate a heavy one covered with moss and lug it back to the boulder before clobbering cellphone until the screen shatters. A couple of additional strategic strikes and the cellphone is reduced to a pile of small pieces of glass, metal, and electronics, which I scrape off the surface of the boulder and collect in the palms of my hands before resuming my hike. The higher I rise the louder the rustling noise gets until I clear a densely wooded area and emerge on the edge of rocky outcropping. In front of me is an irregular grey, granite wall.
Behold Little Falls.
A thin stream of water trickles down the granite from above. The flickering vein, catching the sunlight, takes a jagged course across the rock face before the water leaves the surface and plunges in a thin ribbon through the air into a small creek. I look down at the fractured bits of technology in my palms and come to grip with the reality that Little Falls has stymied my attempt at catharsis. There will be no watery grave for Gary’s phone. I stand disappointed, staring vacuously at the feeble stream of water before I shove the metal and glass shards into my pocket and begin to retrace my steps to my car.
Half-way down, a bell on my cellphone alerts me to a calendar reminder. Garden party 11 am/Sunnyvale Manor.
I completely forgot about it.
I manage to avoid slipping on the way down. Famished, I head straight to The Dine. George is off and I am served by his niece, Agnes, at the counter beside two miserable biker types preoccupied with their meals. I order the All-American breakfast and scarf down eggs, bacon, and hash browns, pausing only to take sips from my mug of coffee. I clean the plate and refill my mug from a brown pitcher Agnes leaves on the counter for me. Sated, I remove my cellphone and check the time. 8:20 am. I think of Gary on the stretcher in the cold and wonder what time Municipal comes on a Saturday to pick up passengers for their one-way trip. I wish I could call Clifton and check to see if there were any issues. God, I hope not.
I pay for the meal, leaving a twenty as a tip before popping a soft white mint in my mouth. My breath must be fetid. I cram another in for good measure.
I drive away from The Dine without urgency. I pass two cop cars with lights flashing flanking a suspicious black vehicle with tinted windows and the vanity license plate: GNSTER. There is badness afoot. I slink low in the car and continue to drive, leaving behind the troubles, navigating past the decaying buildings, the businesses on life-support, and those who call it home, leaving Little Falls once and for all.
CHAPTER 59
The Garden Party occurs at the beginning of spring each year. My family used to join me for the occasion, but have not done so for the last couple of years. I visit Sunnyvale Manor alone and head to the fenced off yard behind the nursing home finding an empty Adirondack chair in which to rest. It is a beautiful day with a delightful breeze. The inmates have been set free to wander in the field amongst the flowerbeds. The women are attired in their finest dresses and the men are in slacks and collared shirts. Some stroll arm in arm through the garden with the assistance of aides. Others are pushed around across the patio on wheelchairs. I spot my mother near a hydrangea bush beaming as she watches with wonder as an aide blows bubbles.
My thoughts drift to my stop by the house before arriving here. How I mixed concrete in a bucket and stirred in the broken fragments of Gary’s phone before adding it to the foundation of the cabana. I remember what it sounded like when I ripped apart the passport and fed it into the paper shredder.
I wave to my mother, and she waves back with a huge grin on her face. She is happy and begins to skip on the lawn like she is doing hopscotch, laughing and laughing.
I call Rose over and ask if I can pay her more to check on my mother with increased frequently. Rose passes me a tall glass of lemonade filled with ice cubes and a white and red striped straw. I take a long drink. It is divine. The sky is a brilliant blue. I close my eyes.
“Mr. Teak, you are a good son,” Rose says from behind me, her hand on my shoulder. “Your mom is lucky to have you.”
EPILOGUE
I have spent the late summer days floating on an inflatable pink raft in the pool, a beer can wedged firmly into a cup holder in the arm rest, staring at the clouds above. Today’s are mostly the big cotton ball types that float slowly across the sky, the type you fancy look like animals. They periodically slip over the sun, plunging the afternoon into a world of muted light, which causes the birds to stop chirping. I let my fingertips brush the surface of the cool water and listen with my eyes closed behind my sunglasses as the Milners pretend to garden on the other side of the fence when I know full well that they are peering through the thin gaps between the wooden slats at the paradise next door. My paradise. A buzzing noise interrupts the calm causing me to crane my neck skyward as I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand. A single small plane methodically circles above pulling a banner advertising the final closing sale of another one of those legacy department stores that my parents used to shop at back in the day. “Everything Must Go!” the banner reads.
I can see Sam dressed in a white bikini underneath an unbuttoned chambray shirt fixing herself a cocktail at the outdoor kitchen, dropping several ice cubes in a tall glass and pouring in a hefty volume of vodka followed by a splash of a flavored seltzer. She slinks back to her chaise holding the glass in one hand and clutching a bowl of purple grapes in the other. As she lies back, she retrieves her cellphone and focuses on the screen. She might as well be a million miles away. Sam has lately been in a tizzy since she found out that Marilyn Stein just bought a beach house and “simply loves it.” Sam now devotes an inordinate amount of time to scrolling through beach real estate listings.
Cole is sitting shirtless on the chaise next to Sam, a towel draped over his head so he can play a game on his iPad while minimizing the glare from the sun. He’s pudgier than before. Doctor Carol thinks the weight gain is a side effect of a new medication she has added. He is much more even-keeled these days, his outbursts significantly reduced, although he now has a tendency of wetting his bed and experiencing horrible nightmares.
Olive returns from the cabana carrying a partially deflated giant inflatable rainbow unicorn, struggling to keep it from dragging across the tile. She plops it on the flagstone and straddles the animal, hugging its neck and whispering into its ear. We’ve paid the deposit on the Clover School for next year, but have not yet had the heart to tell her that she will not be returning to public school with her friends.
Sometimes I like to float on the raft well into the night when Sam and the kids have long since retired to the house. I can see their backlit forms through the windows in the dark moving about like characters on stage.
How did I get here?
When the night is very quiet, paranoia has a tendency of creeping into my thoughts, leaving me unsettled. I think about the broken pieces of Gary’s cell phone fossilized in the cement below the cabana. I visualize the blemished corner of the iron frame encaging George Little and wonder if I fully sanitized it. I worry about whether Lucas’ recorded confession is somewhere floating in a digital purgatory, yet to be discovered in the almighty and forever Cloud. I fret that Gary’s body was never cremated. How would I know for certain?
