Dial M for Meat Loaf (19 page)

June, 1974

Dear Gilbert:

Thanks for your note. Yes, you’re right. This is a horrible time for me. It was almost nine years ago that
Laura died. And now Bliss. It’s enough to make a guy
turn his back on the people who count on him and just
run for his life.

Between you and me, I’m pretty sure the chief of police thinks I did it. Can you fathom that? He believes I
murdered Bliss and then covered it up by making it look
like a robbery. When he interrogated me last week, he
said that in his experience, nobody got murdered so violently unless there was a huge amount of emotion involved. To him, that meant the victim knew her killer.
There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle, so in his
mind, I was the most likely suspect. I feel like we’re
playing some kind of chess game. Thank God I found a
guy in La Crosse, Wisconsin, who’d vouch for me. He
gave the police a statement yesterday, said I’d been in
town the night it happened. With him for a witness, I
don’t think there’s much they can do to me. And I got at
least one cop on my side. He’s a neighbor, been a friend
for years. He used to know my wife when she was a kid.
He’s seen firsthand how much I loved her, and how much
she loved me.

It’s
love
that’s important, Gil, not the other crap that
happens. I’ve got to keep my eye on the ball, not let my
wife’s death break my spirit.

J. D.

34

Sunlight flooded Byron Jenny’s office, where Plato now sat, his feet up on the desk. He was making a paper airplane, something he often did when the world overwhelmed him. He found that mindless activity helped him to focus his thoughts. “Simplify,” he whispered, knowing that his life was anything but simple. Folding the paper wings into place, he wondered idly if thinking could be carcinogenic. He supposed it could be, although that notion probably put him in the same health-obsessed camp as his father.

Plato wasn’t depressed. If anything, he walked with a certain spring in his step these days. His father was no longer high atop the family pedestal, and that made Plato feel vindicated. As far as he was concerned, no matter what everyone said out loud, each family member knew in his or her heart that John Washburn had done something very, very,
very
bad. Plato remembered reading once that suicide rates always went down during wars. Perhaps that was why he was in such good spirits. His family was at war—with the anarchy of town gossip, with Cora Runbeck’s evil threats, and with a police department intent on putting a not-so-innocent man behind bars. The whole situation inspired barrels of overwrought emotions. High drama. But the final outcome didn’t matter all that much. In the end, everything turned to dust. The only question was, how long would it take?

In the midst of his nihilistic meditations came a knock on the door.

“Enter at your own risk,” he called, waiting for the door to open. When it did, he propelled the airplane into the blue. It took an immediate nose dive and landed at Gloria Applebaum’s feet. Gloria had been Byron Jenny’s personal assistant. Now she was the temporary managing editor.

“Nice touch,” she said, picking up the fatally flawed piece of origami and undulating toward his desk.

For the past few weeks, Plato had begun to experience certain moments in his day in a kind of weird slow motion. He closed his eyes and shook the wheels in his head, hoping to rearrange them. When he opened his eyes, Gloria was standing at his desk. She wants something, he thought silently. He hoped he wouldn’t have to play twenty questions to find out what it was. Everybody had to be
someplace
, so that’s why he’d come to the paper this morning. He had no intention of working, though it was important to look busy; otherwise people talked. All he really wanted was to be left alone.

Dropping the airplane on the desk, Gloria smiled. “What do you want?” He frowned in an effort to look substantial.

“I’m hoping I can help you.” She swiveled her hips into a chair.

“Oh God.”

“Look, Mr. Washburn, the newspaper’s in a bad way. Decisions are being left unmade. Our creditors are starting to get nervous. We need a leader, someone to part the Red Sea for us, like Byron used to do.”

“Speak English.”

“I want his job. Permanently. I need you to make the official announcement today. Without your backing, your clear and unequivocally stipulated confidence in my considerable, substantial, and weighty abilities, we’re just spinning our wheels around here.”

“How long did it take for you to memorize that?”

“Excuse me?”

She’d spent too many years with her nose in a thesaurus. Probably majored in adjectives in college. For all he knew, she couldn’t even spell. “What the hell? Sure, you can have the job.” Nobody else was beating down his door.

She seemed at a momentary loss. “Is that it?”

“Is what it?”

“I don’t have to, you know, sell you on the idea a little more?”

“No, you made your point.”

“Oh. Well, then, can we talk about salary?”

“Same as Byron was getting. How’s that sound?”

“Really!” She shot out of her chair. “You’re nothing like people say, Mr. Washburn. You’re just an old pussycat.”

Plato was growing more dyspeptic by the moment. “Have someone type up an interoffice memo and I’ll sign it. You can put the announcement in the paper on Saturday.”

“You won’t regret this, Mr. Washburn. I’ll work like a viper!”

“Do you know what a viper is, Ms. Applebaum?”

“Something strong and courageous and purposeful,” she said, her eyes crinkling as she looked off in the distance. She was a walking B movie.

Plato noticed now that she was holding a small white envelope. “What’s that in your hand?”

She looked down. “Oh, this. Somebody slipped it under the door this morning before we got in. It’s addressed to you.”

He plucked it from her hand. “Thanks.”

“About my office—”

“We’ll discuss it later.”

“Yes, Mr. Washburn. Whatever you say, Mr. Washburn.”

After she’d gone, Plato took Byron’s letter opener and sliced open the top of the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of typing paper with three short lines printed in capital letters:

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
IF YOU DON’T STOP, I’LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT.
VERY TRULY YOURS,
A CONCERNED FAMILY MEMBER

“What the hell?” Plato whispered. He examined the page, both front and back, then returned his attention to the envelope. His first name was printed on the front. That was it. No other marking. After staring at the message for a few more seconds, he refolded the page and placed it carefully inside the vest pocket of his wrinkled linen suit. He tossed the paper airplane in the trash on his way out.

Mary waited as Milton opened the front door for her. She felt devilish. They’d just returned from an afternoon movie. She was ashamed to admit she’d been off having fun while John was in the hospital struggling his way through another round of physical therapy. Even in the best of times, John didn’t enjoy movies much, but Mary did. And so did Milton. Unfortunately, they’d made the mistake of going to a romantic weeper. When Mary thought of the ill-fated couple in the story, she started to cry. She cried so easily these days. It was as if all the walls she’d built over the years to help her cope with the stresses and strains of life had suddenly dissolved, baring her vulnerable soul for all the world to see. Except, the only person who ever looked was Milton. He saw her for who she really was.

Milton busied himself in the kitchen making them a bite to eat as Mary opened a window in the living room to let in the breeze. For most of the past month, the weather felt as though someone had turned on a furnace full blast and forgotten to turn it off. But today was different. For the second time in two weeks, the humidity had dropped and so had the temperature. The house could be opened to receive the blessing of a late summer breeze. Mary felt opened, too, on a day like this. Open to life. Open to love. On those increasingly rare moments when she and Milton were alone together, she felt wrapped in a protective cocoon, adrift on a deserted island where only the two of them mattered. But when she emerged, as she would in a few short hours when she returned to the hospital for the night, the weight of the world dropped on her shoulders again, all the heavier because of the respite.

Mary’s mother used to say that guilt was God’s way of telling you that you were doing something bad. Maybe loving Milton
was
wrong, but it seemed to Mary that marriage was an impossible situation. A man you might have loved when you were in your teens could hardly be expected to be the same man fifty years later. What if he changed into someone you didn’t even like? In Mary’s case, her love had been mixed with gratitude, an equally complex emotion. The minister at First Lutheran said that if married people had problems, they should try to work them out. And Mary had. But if she was forced to sit through one more conversation about organic strawberries versus conventionally grown fruit, she was going to scream.

Mary thought of all the fiftieth anniversaries she and John had helped friends celebrate over the years. As far as she was concerned, people who stayed married that long were an odd bunch. Either they lacked courage or they lacked imagination. Maybe that was a cold thing to say, but it was how she felt. She wouldn’t fight her guilt or try to push it away. No, she deserved whatever judgment God chose to impose. And she’d pay the price gladly, if only Milton would stick around and not leave her all alone to care for a sick and aging man she’d long ago ceased to love. It was time to admit the truth. It wasn’t the way she’d intended her life to turn out; it’s just what had happened when she wasn’t looking.

“Mary? Why don’t you see if the postman’s been here?” Milton called from the kitchen. “I’ll be out in a sec with our meat loaf sandwiches.”

Feeling the breeze ruffle her hair as she passed the open window, Mary stepped out onto the front steps and collected the mail.

“Anything for me?” asked Milton, setting a tray on the coffee table in front of the couch. “I poured you orange juice. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s wonderful,” she said, touched that he was so eager to care for her. She’d spent her life taking care of others. It was nice to be on the receiving end for a change. She sat down next to him and flipped through the letters. “Nothing for you but this.” She handed him a small white envelope. His first name had been printed in capital letters on the front. “It wasn’t mailed. See?” She pointed. “No stamp. Somebody must have come by and put it in the box.”

Milton took a bite of his sandwich, then opened the letter. Peering through his bifocals, he read silently.

“What’s it say?” asked Mary, taking a sip of her juice.

He stopped chewing.

“What is it?” His face had turned a deep, angry pink.

“Nothing.” He crumpled the paper into a ball and jammed it into his pocket.

“It most certainly was not
nothing
,” said Mary, searching his face for clues.

“Eat your sandwich,” he replied, attempting a smile that fell flat.

“You can confide in me, Milton. Is it about John?”

“It’s junk. Let’s forget about it, okay? People should mind their own business.”

She agreed with him, though she wasn’t entirely satisfied that he’d told her everything. But she let the matter drop. She had so little time to share with Milton these days, she didn’t want to spoil an otherwise perfect afternoon with unpleasantness.

35

Angelo promised he’d pick Bernice up outside the hospital. It had become their routine. He waited for her by the front doors, but when she didn’t show by threefifteen, he parked his rental car and headed up to John’s room. He found Papa Washburn all alone, sitting up in a chair.

“Angel,” said John, one half of his face smiling broadly, the other half a little less enthusiastic.

Angelo didn’t really mind that he called him Angel. He figured it was an affectionate kind of nickname.

“You’re looking for Bernice,” said John. His speech had improved remarkably in the last few days. He still didn’t pronounce things quite right, especially words with an “L” or an “S” in them, and he talked deliberately and slowly, but he was completely understandable.

“Is she here?” asked Angelo. “I was supposed to pick her up at three.”

“Sit,” said John, his eyes dropping to a green plastic chair. “She was hungry. I told her to go eat. I would entertain you until she got back.”

On the table in front of him was a glass of water with a straw, and a plastic bowl of applesauce.

“My afternoon snack,” said John, nodding to the bowl. “Yum.”

Angelo laughed. “Not your kind of cuisine, huh?”

“I’ve mellowed. It’s keeping me alive.”

“Yeah, that’s something.”

“A miracle.” He rolled his eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Stronger. But this . . . is hard.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Did you pop the question to my daughter?”

Angelo’s smile turned to a grin. “I did.”

“She’s glowing. She must have said yes.”

“We’re not telling anyone yet.”

“But me.”

“Right. Anyone but you.”

Hesitating, John reached his right hand toward Angelo. “You be my angel, okay?”

Angelo wasn’t sure what the old man was saying, but he took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I will. I promise.”

“Do you know Benjamin Disraeli?”

“The English politician? No, not personally.”

“He said that most people die with their music still in them. Remember that, Angel. Don’t let that happen to you. Or my daughter.”

He was a sweet old guy. This was his fatherly advice, delivered with all the majesty he could muster in his current condition. Since Angelo’s own father wasn’t capable of giving much good advice, even if he’d been alive, Angelo was deeply touched. “You’ll dance at our wedding, John.”

“Damn right I will.” He gazed forlornly at the applesauce. “My nurse told me I had to eat all of this. Want some?”

“Gee, I don’t know.”

“Help an old guy out.”

“Well, okay. But I’ve never liked applesauce very much.”

“Then don’t get sick. Or old.”

“You’re full of good advice today.”

“That’s me. A font of wisdom.” He pushed the spoon toward Angelo.

“Say, since I’m here, maybe you could clear something up.” He took a bite, trying not to make a face. “Did you ever go by a nickname?”

“A nickname?”

“Yeah, you know. Did anybody ever call you Jake, or Jack, or . . . maybe, J.D?”

“My middle name is Arthur. Why would someone call me J.D.?”

Angelo shrugged. “Just curious. I mean, you call me Angel. That’s kind of a nickname.”

“You mind?”

“Not at all. Coming from you, I like it.”

“You can call me Jake.” He smiled. “If it makes you happy.”

“But I suppose your brother, Milton, had tons of nicknames. Don’t take offense, but Milton isn’t exactly a cool name.”

“You’re right. Eat up,” he said, pushing the bowl closer to Angelo.

“So, did he?” asked Angelo, choking down another mouthful.

“Some people called him Sonny. I called him Junior. Used to annoy the hell out of him. Mom called him Milt. Dad called him Stupid, ‘the little jerk,’ and ‘the gutless wonder.’ He had some choice names for me, too.”

When Angelo had almost finished the applesauce, a nurse bustled through the door. “Time to take your vitals, John.”

Angelo quickly hid the spoon under his leg.

“Look,” said John, smiling up at her. “I was a good boy. I ate it.”

She beamed. “Just what you need to make you well and strong.”

John winked at Angelo.

“Let me push your sleeve up,” she said, inserting a thermometer into his mouth. “I’ll get your temp first, then your blood pressure.”

Angelo’s eyes opened in surprise when he saw the tattoo on John’s arm. The same one Sophie had seen on Milton’s. A snake with a red eye.

The nurse waited, gazing intently at an electronic device attached to her belt. When it gave a beep, she smiled. “Perfect.” She removed the thermometer, then pulled the blood pressure cuff away from the wall.

“You’ve got a tattoo,” said Angelo casually.

“Silliness. When we were young, my brother and I got good and drunk one night in downtown Terre Haute. While we were wandering around, looking for a good time, we came across a tattoo parlor. I thought, what the hell? It was the manly thing to do, right? I had some cash burning a hole in my pocket, so I sprang for both of us. You got any tattoos?”

“Me? No.”

“Shhh,” said the nurse.

Angelo stared at the snake. So much for Sophie’s infallible theory.