Authors: Joe Hart
The lights popped back on as if a switch had been thrown.
The stairs blazed into life, solid and real. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and descended again, waiting for the lights to go out with every step. They stayed lit, and he allowed himself to hurry down the last flight and through the door into the waiting basement hallway, his tapping footsteps sounding like someone, or something, following only a staircase behind.
When the door closed, he found himself standing before a break room, a Coke machine humming in the corner the only sound. He paused, letting his heartbeat return to a semi-normal rhythm and tried to cast off the clinging fear that cloaked him like a sopping coat.
He turned left, following the old woman’s directions, and came to a set of double doors with glass set in their upper halves. A young man with dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses stood on the other side of the entrance, his attention on a clipboard he held in one hand. Without looking up, he pushed through the doors and nearly bumped into Mick.
“Oh jeez, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
“It’s okay. I’m looking for the morgue.”
“You found it.”
“Okay, I’m here to identify my father’s body.”
“Oh wow, sorry to hear that. He’s our only resident today. It’s been quiet here all week. Thought we’d have more with the nasty weather, accidents, and whatnot, you know?”
Mick studied the morgue attendant for a moment while the younger man simply stood there tapping his thigh with the clipboard.
“So, what do I need to do?” Mick asked finally.
“Oh right, yeah. Come with me.”
The attendant strode through the double doors and led Mick into a white office complete with two desks, computers, and a counter filled with medical tools wrapped in cellophane bags. Another door opened into a tiled room with a shining steel table set in its center. The table had four-inch sidewalls and sloped downward to one end where a large drain waited. The air smelled of formaldehyde and the hint of deteriorating matter, suggesting not where dead things rotted but where they paused for a time. On the far wall was a bank of three square doors set at waist level. On each door was a number, and in their corners were slots, not unlike the kind on port-a-potties or airplane bathrooms signifying if they are occupied.
The slots on the doors to either end were gray; the one in the center was red.
Mick’s stomach began to ball up like a drawstring bag. The room wavered in his vision, growing hazy near the corners of the room until it appeared that the autopsy room was cloaked in fog.
“Hey, bro, you don’t look so good. Maybe you want to sit down.”
The casual tone of the attendant was enough to clear his sight, and Mick stopped, breathing slowly through his mouth while looking at the immaculate grout between the tiles at his feet, forcing their lines not to blur.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay, if you need to ralph or something, there’s a garbage—”
“I’m fine.” Mick’s words cut the cool air, and he realized how cold it was in the room.
Cold for preservation
. He grimaced. “I’m fine.”
The attendant’s eyes were large behind his glasses, and he nodded once, dipping his chin slowly to his chest. Without another word, he moved to the center door, turned a handle to unlock it, and opened it to the side with a short squeal.
A frame of midnight hung in the space that equaled the darkness in the stairway when the lights had failed.
Mick swallowed. His heart, already at a fair pace, double-timed in his chest. The attendant reached into the yawning hole, and he expected a gnashing sound to issue from inside as if a great set of jaws had come together. Instead, the buzz and glide of ball bearings met his ears, and a shrouded form rolled into the light of the morgue. Without waiting, the younger man drew back the sheet covering the man-shaped mass. And the weakening hope that this was a mistake of some kind flickered and died within Mick’s mind.
5
His father lay on the extended gurney. The man who had always existed, Mick’s own personal God since childhood, stared up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes still shining the hazy blue they had in life. A network of purple veins crept across one pale shoulder, but it was his father’s skull that caught him off guard. It was shaped wrong, incongruent in a slanted way that reminded him of a house of cards shifting before it fell. His short-cropped hair looked wet, but Mick didn’t lean in closer to see the exact injury that had caused his father’s head to take on the uneven appearance.
“Ah fuck. I’m sorry, bro. I closed his eyes last night; I know I did. Sorry.”
The attendant pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, snapping them on before sliding a thumb and forefinger over his father’s eyelids. They stayed shut, and somehow, with them closed, he looked less at peace and more damaged—more dead.
Mick let his breath whistle out from between his teeth, a deflating sound that filled the tiled room.
“Hey, I’ll just step out and be in the other room if you need me. Take your time,” the attendant said, stripping his gloves off as he sidled away. The door clicked shut, and then he was alone. Mick ran his eyes over his father’s features, their lines still the same, undamaged: the long, regal nose he had inherited and subsequently passed down to Aaron, the receding hairline that would be in his future, the strong jaw that was always set in a determined way. His facial muscles were slack now, unburdened in the purest way.
“Oh, Dad,” Mick said, trying to swallow the stubborn lump in his throat. “Damn it, why didn’t you listen to me? That woodstove—” His voice failed him, and fresh tears rose on his bottom eyelids. It didn’t matter. Not anymore. The tears, the words, anything within the life he possessed, there was nothing he could do or say that would make a difference now.
“I’m sorry. Sorry I didn’t get up here to see you as much as I should have. Sorry I didn’t fly you down more often to visit with Aaron. He’s gonna miss you.” He paused, a sob locked in the vault of his chest. “I’m gonna miss you.”
Mick reached out and put a hand on one frigid shoulder, the skin like bleached stone.
His father’s eyes slid halfway open, and his legs, still inside the morgue drawer, kicked, banging against the steel in a sudden movement.
Mick issued a strangled cry and staggered back, yanking his hand away as he tripped and fell to the floor.
“What the fuck? What the fuck?”
“What’s going on, bro?”
The attendant strode into the room, his magnified eyes shifted between the body and where Mick was sprawled on the floor.
Mick raised a shaking hand. “He…he moved! He fucking moved!”
The attendant frowned as if he’d just heard about some bad weather approaching.
“Hmm. Yeah, that happens sometimes, but I’ve never seen it. The nervous system sends out a jolt to the spinal cord and the muscles twitch.” He looked away from the body, the suggestion of a smile on his lips. “Just science, bro.”
Mick sagged, his head drooping. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Pretty weird, right?”
“Yeah. Look—” Mick said, slowly bringing himself to his feet. He had the intense urge to run his hands under scalding water and rub them raw with soap. “—it’s definitely my dad. Can we take care of the necessary paperwork?”
“Sure, sure. There’s only one form to sign, and then you just have to write down which funeral home you’re using. I’ll take it from there.” The attendant spoke over his shoulder as he walked toward the adjacent room.
Mick watched him go and cleared his throat, stopping the younger man at the doorway.
“What’s up?”
“Can you put him away, please?” Mick said, motioning toward his father’s body.
“Oh, right. Can’t be too careful,” he said, moving back across the room as Mick closed his eyes and swallowed the taste of bile coating the back of his tongue.
6
The cheaply textured ceiling of the hotel room had pictures on its surface. Mick stared at it, lying on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, trying to sleep. The bumps and grooves meant to hide the dust and dirt of time was an architecture of scenes. Near the corner of the room was a stream flowing between two high banks. Next to the bathroom, a semi-deflated hot-air balloon hung above a forest of reaching branches. And in the center of the room was a skeletal hand turned halfway over, reminding him of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel depiction of Adam’s fingers reaching for God, except the hand on the ceiling was decayed and thin, twisted with disease that warped the bones into something unnatural.
Mick sighed and turned to his side away from the images and shut his eyes. He’d always been able to find pictures or meaning in the most random places and had done so since he was a child. It started in a common way, his father taking him for a backpacking hike behind their property to a hill known only as The Rise. His father had told him it was the highest point in the county, its semi-bare back looming up out of the conifers that grew in such thick abundance on their land it was sometimes hard to see the sky.
And the sky was where he had seen his first picture.
They’d eaten a small lunch on the peak of The Rise, and he’d lain down in the untamed grass that grew there, the scratching touch of their blades against his arms and face. The azure bowl above them had been blemished by fluffs of cumulus that cruised by on an unfelt wind beyond the tops of the trees. A face had been in one of the clouds, not a scowling, unkind visage but one of gently smiling eyes and a mouth turned up at one corner only enough to notice if you were looking directly at it. The rest of its features were lost in the indistinction that changed on the edges of the cloud.
It was years later, after he’d become enamored with art and design, that he’d finally seen Da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa
and realized it was a semblance of her face he’d witnessed that day floating thousands of feet above him, there and gone in the accumulation, but he’d never forgotten how that suggestion of a smile had made him feel.
Now the image of his father’s lifeless eyes were there whenever he shut his own, their staring depth seared into his brain. And the way the corpse had jerked played over and over on an endless reel accompanied by the soundtrack of dead flesh meeting steel.
The phone beside his bed rang, and Mick twitched,
like Dad did on the tray,
sitting up to stare at the device as if it were a coiled snake. He reached out and picked up the receiver, somehow knowing his father’s voice would issue from the other end.
“Hello?”
“Mickey.”
His stomach cartwheeled, flipping itself a dozen times before he realized the voice held a scratchy tinge of cigarettes and hard booze that had never graced his father’s tone.
“Uncle Gary?”
“Sure is, kiddo. How you doin’?”
“I’m…” Mick stood up from the bed and rubbed the side of his face with one hand. “…I’m okay.”
“I’m so sorry, kid. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Yeah, me neither. It’s a…a shock. How’d you know I was here, by the way? I just checked in an hour ago.”
“I’m acquainted with the front desk staff. They told me which room you were in.”
“Oh.”
“Say, you want to get a bite to eat? I’d like to see you, talk a little bit.”
The thought of food made his stomach slop like a mop bucket that had been bumped. He glanced at the ruffled bedspread he’d been lying on, his eyes traveling up from its garish pattern to the curled hand on the ceiling directly above him.
“Sure. I should eat something.”
“Good. Come down to the dining lounge off the lobby. I’m at the bar.”
7
The restaurant was designed to be dark. The carpets were red, pocked with indefinite patterns of black. The walls were a deep beige that most would call brown. Heavy curtains hung beside windows shrouded by a gossamer material that muted the already dismal light let in by the storm outside. A dozen round tables stood silent at this hour, empty chairs tucked beneath them. The bar itself was polished mahogany, and only two of the red fixtures glowed above it, bathing its top and one occupant in a bloody halo.
Gary Bannon sat slumped forward, his elbows propped on the bar and his head slanted down so that he stared into an amber beverage choked with ice. Gray hair poked from beneath a tattered plaid cap, and his face was a scowl of lines covered in salt-and-pepper scruff. As Mick approached, he looked up. His eyes, uncannily like his brother’s, found his nephew and sparkled even in the dim light, a hesitant smile forming under a drooping nose blotched with broken veins.
“Mickey, damn boy, you look great,” Gary said, standing from his perch. He held out a large hand, and Mick took it in his own, feeling the rough calluses and cuts on the other man’s fingers.