They took Melissa away. They took their pictures first. Put bits of things in plastic bags. Marked them up with black indelible pens. Asked me question after question. I answered. I was polite. But I didn’t, don’t, remember one thing I was asked. One thing I said. I was on automatic pilot. I was busy building walls. The only thing I wanted was my Kelly in my arms. They kept taking her away from me. To ask her questions too.
I just wanted them all to leave.
When they finally did, I put my arms around Kelly. We were both too tired and numb to say a thing. I fell into a sleep, as deep and dark as black on black. I did not dream. I did not think.
That’s what nirvana’s like, I think the Buddhists say.
I never wanted it to end.
But of course it did. Light came through the curtains. I woke up. My stomach hurt. Another day to face. I had no choice. I had to face it. For my angel child, if nothing else.
And there was precious little else.
They’d taken Melissa to the morgue. I supposed normal people called their friendly neighborhood funeral director. Or something. Somebody.
I didn’t.
Melissa had no family, no friends to call.
And anyway I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.
I slept.
I woke.
Damn it. They were going to cut Melissa up. Cut her into little pieces. Recite her bits and pieces into a handheld tape recorder. Collect them, bag them, test them. Defile them. Put them all back into a pile. Sew it back inside of her.
I couldn’t stand the thought of it.
I called the coroner’s office. I asked for Dr. Nathaniel Jones. The Chief Medical Examiner. I knew him only well enough to nod at in the hallway. I don’t know what I thought I was going to accomplish, talking to him. I wasn’t thinking much, really. Action just seemed better than sitting and thinking. Brooding. Imagining. Any action. Action to push the darkness away, if only for a little while. To give me time. To give me time to wash it all away. To dull the edges.
Dr. Jones was not a friendly man. He was a tall ungainly thing with a peculiar crown of white hair that gave him a Caesarean air. He never smiled. Never reacted to anything, beyond a small twitching at the corner of his mouth, a slight frown at the corners of his eyes. I could picture him sitting imperially at his desk as he took my call.
Once he was on the line, I had no idea what to say.
I’m Richard Redman, I said.
Hello, Mr. Redman, said Dr. Jones.
My wife died yesterday.
Ah, yes. I’m so sorry for your loss, said Dr. Jones, without a hint of conviction.
I guessed he said that a lot, in his business. It got to be a chore. A bore.
I paused.
He cleared his throat.
Have you begun an autopsy? I asked.
Not yet.
Good.
Good?
Because I don’t want one.
Pardon me?
I don’t want one.
I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand what you’re saying.
I don’t want an autopsy.
There was a pause. Dr. Jones cleared his throat again.
Mr. Redman, he said, I have the utmost respect for your feelings. But I’m afraid that this is not an issue that it is in my power to decide. Nor is it yours. This is a matter for the police. The District Attorney.
A deep-seated anger arose in me. The numbly bureaucratic mind at work again. It was everywhere.
Listen, Dr. Jones, I said. She didn’t believe in it. She didn’t believe in funerals either. Or services. She just wanted to be cremated. Right away. Cast to the winds.
Right away? he asked. Is this a request she put in writing?
No. She’s my wife. She was my wife. I know what her feelings were.
Well, Mr. Redman, I understand. I understand. I’ll have someone call you.
The simmer turned to a boil.
Someone call me? Aren’t you the one in charge of the bodies down there? Who the hell are you going to have call me?
I’ll have someone call you, Mr. Redman. Good day.
Click.
I sat back. I got up. I paced back and forth. I felt like a jerk. Why had I done that? I hadn’t the slightest idea what Melissa’s beliefs were about funeral arrangements. It was me. I was trying to burn it away. Purge the guilt. The deadening sorrow. The responsibility. Jesus. Wasn’t there more I could have done for her? All along the way? Yes. Of course there was. Every step of the way. Seen it coming earlier. Battled it more. Loved her more. Mostly that. Got out of my goddamn own mind a little more.
I went into the kitchen. I got some ice. I took the talisman from its sacred niche. What the hell. Might as well put it to good use. I poured myself a tumblerful. I drank it down.
It was eight-thirty in the morning.
The phone rang. It was a Detective Harwood. I didn’t know him. He wanted to come over for a chat. Sure, I said. Come on over.
I hung up the phone. Oh Christ, I thought. What have I done? They think I’m trying to dispose of the evidence. But how could they? Who in their right mind would be so stupid as to call up the coroner’s office to ask them to assist in disposing of the body? I laughed a small dry laugh. Me, I guess. I could see their thinking. A man consumed with grief can do some irrational things. Or a man consumed with guilt.
Harwood was an older guy. Short. Balding. Rumpled. A guy who’d been around. He wasn’t the bullying type. More the sardonic type. He’d seen it all. He wasn’t taking any shit. He asked a lot of questions. I answered them. The theme was pretty basic.
Where was I that night?
In the bar. Then home. In the house with the deceased.
Had I had anything to drink?
Lots.
Drugs?
No.
Any arguments recently?
No. We hardly talked.
Really?
Yes. She was a recovering alcoholic. And pills. Whatever. She didn’t have much to say these days.
He perked up at that.
Who was the last person to see her alive?
Me, probably.
Interesting, I could hear him think. Very interesting.
He warmed up as we went on, though not a lot. He can see I’m not the type, I let myself think. Maybe I’m acting like you’re supposed to act. Whatever that is.
But he never lost his wary, cynical air.
The questions went on too long. He asked the same question one too many times. I lost my temper, just a bit.
Listen, I said, I know you’ve got a job to do. But it’s an overdose. It’s been coming for years. Anybody who knew her can tell you that. Talk to her doctor. She wanted to die. She couldn’t handle living. It was just too much for her. I’m not saying I can tell you why. I don’t know why. And I should have known. I should have found out. But I didn’t. And now she’s gone. It’s bad enough. Can you just leave me alone now? Please?
Mr. Redman. I understand that you’re upset, he said calmly. But we have to follow procedures. We have to establish the cause in the proper way.
Establish the cause? Come on.
You never know, Mr. Redman. Death is a funny thing.
A laugh a minute, I said with a sneer.
He looked hard at me. I backtracked.
I’m sorry, I said. I’m a little emotional.
I could feel his distrust fill the room. Like carbon monoxide. Silent. Odorless. Deadly.
I could understand it. I knew that whatever I’d been feeling inside, however normal I’d been acting, no grief, no weakness, beyond that brief flash of anger, had made an appearance. I should have been reacting more, I supposed. Hysterical. Crying. Defying the Gods.
But my stony demeanor meant nothing. It’s how I deal with adversity.
I knew that. But he didn’t.
I wasn’t about to tell him, either. You don’t say that kind of thing to a guy.
My throat constricted. I had to hold inside the twelve emotions that competed for attention.
Harwood asked a few more questions. Wrapped it up. Gave me one last searching look. Left.
Finally.
I poured myself another Scotch.
I drained it down.
It felt awfully good.
It was ten o’clock in the morning.
I began to understand Melissa a little better.