The Man From Milwaukee Page 5

  He bent a little as he pressed a hand to her forehead. He snatched it away with a sudden jerk, almost as though he’d been burned. But it was just the opposite—Mother’s forehead was ice cold, despite the heat. Whatever once had thrummed inside her, warming, had gone away, slipping out her screened bedroom window while Emory was at work, ironically writing up underwriting reports for those who needed life insurance.

  As though life itself was a quantity that could be insured, like a diamond ring, or a house, or a Porsche.

  He stood for a moment, simply staring at his dead mother, remembering the times when she’d drawn him into her lap to read him yet another chapter from the series of old Wizard of Oz books they had in the hallway bookcase, or when she would insist on ironing his shirts and pants to ensure he was presentable to the world, or when she’d sit at the kitchen table, peeling and slicing Granny Smith apples for one of her famous apple pies that tasted better than anyone else’s because she added a hint of maple syrup and brown sugar to the apples, along with handfuls of walnuts and raisins. He recalled crawling into bed with her when the thunder and lightning got too loud outside or when he’d awaken, screaming, from the nightmare of a strange man in his bedroom, a shadowy figure standing silently over him.

  He remembered being loved.

  And now that sensation, that security, was gone.

  The lump in his throat grew so large it was hard to swallow. Tears burned in his eyes as though they were not simply salty water, but acid.

  He leaned over, forcing himself to kiss Mother’s cold, cold cheek.

  And then he rushed from the bedroom, pausing only enough to draw the door closed—softly—behind him.

  He threw himself down on the couch, expecting torrents of tears, hiccupping sobs, breathless weeping, but found he felt nothing but a curious numbness.

  He wondered if this was what shock felt like, this emptiness.

  He sat unmoving on the couch as the sounds of the world gradually filtered back in, the traffic and the music of voices on the street, as the shadows lengthened, steadily laying claim to the room, until he was by himself, in the dark.

  Alone.

  He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, but all at once he woke to a sudden brightness, jarring, as the overhead light came on, flooding the room with a harsh yellow glare.

  “What the fuck are you sitting here in the dark for?”

  Emory sat up more. He’d slumped over when he’d fallen asleep. He rubbed his eyes and turned to look up at his sister.

  Her lips were twisted into a smirk as she returned the gaze. All at once, he could see contempt, ridicule, and shame on her features.

  She had no idea.

  Yet.

  “You should get to bed, Emory.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s a little after midnight.”

  Emory eyed his letter from Dahmer, still lying open on the coffee table. It became imperative to him, even more imperative than telling Mary Helen that Mother had passed away, that she not see the missive. He snatched it up, folding it so he could slip it into his pocket.

  He licked his lips, tried to reach down inside himself for just a smidgen of composure.

  “Sit down, Mary Helen.”

  She’d moved to the windows that looked out on the street. He could hear a car idling outside, and it occurred to him that someone might be waiting out there for her. Maybe he should simply let her go without telling her. She didn’t care, anyway.

  She turned. “Why?”

  “Because I have some news.”

  He heard the car drive away, taking with it a snatch of laughter, dying on the spare breeze.

  She plopped down on a ladderback chair across the room. “Is it Mama? Is she okay? Did you have to call an ambulance?” For a moment, he saw the human side to his sister, the vulnerable part she hid successfully most of the time. It made his heart ache.

  He patted the couch next to him. “Come on and sit beside me, dear.”

  She laughed, but there was fear in her eyes, the hurt, the need to avoid the news he was certain she knew was already hurtling toward her.

  “Why?” She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke at the ceiling. She was attempting a look of nonchalance, and failing.

  “Put that out. Just come sit beside me.” He reached out to her with the plaintiveness of his gaze and, miracle of miracles, she did exactly as he asked. For once.

  Next to him, he recoiled at the smell of cigarettes and alcohol wafting off her. Drink oozed from her pores. He wondered, for just a moment, if his sister was an alcoholic.

  “She’s gone, sweetheart. I came home and found her.”

  He sat with her in silence for several minutes.

  And then she fell into his arms and, together, they wept.

  It struck Emory that this was the first time in who knew how long he’d simply hugged his sister, felt her close. It made him even sadder to contemplate that it was their mother’s death that brought this nearness about.

  After a time, Mary Helen sniffed, sat up straighter, pulling away from him at the same time. She wiped her nose on the palm of her hand and then rubbed at her eyes. They were red and glistening.

  “What are we going to do? What will we do now, Emory, without our mother?” Mary Helen asked, and in her troubled voice, Emory heard the little girl she’d once been. The one who had looked up to him like the father they’d never known…

  “Well, we’ll need to call an ambulance. We’ll need to figure out the arrangements for her.”

  “What if they won’t take her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve heard the horror stories, Emory. About people with…with her disease.”

  Emory shook his head. Without knowing if he was right, he said, “That won’t be a problem. Folks are beyond all that, now.”

  But are they?

  “Oh, I’m not so sure.”

  Emory eyed the phone on the end table. “Should we call an ambulance now?”

  Mary Helen didn’t say anything. He’d never seen her look so lost and confused.

  “Can it wait? Just until the morning?”

  Emory had been thinking the same thing. He wondered how long Mother had been lying dead in her room. It could have been since early the evening before, when he’d last checked in on her before heading off to his own bed. That length of time, he thought, would account for the smell.

  And the smell would only get worse. But it was late, so late, and what difference would a few more hours make?

  “I think we can wait.”

  Mary Helen sat up straighter. “I want to go in and see her.”

  He closed his eyes, imagining her grief, and nodded.

  Emory simply sat still, his head reclining on the back of the couch, as his sister left the room. He expected a gasp or maybe even a scream, but all he heard was the creak and soft close of the door to Mother’s room. He waited a while. The door closed and opened again. The rush of water from the bathroom, the squeak of the cabinet where they kept the towels opening and closing…

  He’d thought Mary Helen wouldn’t want to stay with Mother for long. A word of goodbye, maybe, a too-late proclamation of love, and then off to her own room. Who knew if she’d even stay the night? She was gone so much lately he wondered if he could truthfully even say that she’d lived here.

  But what he sensed was at least a half hour gone by with no sound from the back of the apartment. He pushed himself up and off the couch to see what was keeping Mary Helen.

  He crept down the hallway and swung Mother’s bedroom door open slowly, quietly.

  The room was dark. Wan, pale light from the crescent moon outside filtered in. Mary Helen stood by the side of Mother’s bed. On the nightstand, there was a bowl of soapy water. Mary Helen dipped a washcloth in it, wrung it out, and then applied it to their mother. She made long, deliberate strokes, cleaning her arms, her legs, at last her face, patting Mother’s cheeks with tenderness. Mary Helen’s brow f
urrowed in concentration as she worked. There was such love in this simple act.

  When she finished, she set the washcloth in the bowl of soapy water and then looked over. She’d known all along he was standing there. Then, she cast her gaze away, sighed, and got into bed. She lay curled up like a baby next to their mother’s body. She’d draped one of Mother’s arms across her shoulders.

  The scene should have repulsed him, released some primal prohibition against consorting with the dead, but all he felt was touched.

  He didn’t say a word, but simply backed from the room, closing the door behind him.

  Let her have her time, he told himself as he made his way to his own room. It would have been nice if she could have—even once—laid down and held Mother when she was alive, but at least it shows she has a heart, something I was beginning to doubt.

  Emory shut his bedroom door. He undressed quickly and then donned his pajamas. He took Dahmer’s note from his pocket and placed it on top of his desk.

  The world had shifted, but Emory moved to the bathroom. He still needed to perform his nightly ritual of brushing and flossing and washing his face. The world continued to turn.

  Back in his own room, he sat at his desk. He picked up the letter from Dahmer and read it once more, imagining in this late-night hour, when all of Chicago was relatively quiet, that he could feel the killer’s energy within the paper.

  He let his mind drift away from horror and loss.

  And then he began to write…

  Chapter Five

  “Emory won’t be in today, so if you have any questions, just stop on by. My office door is always open.” Jennifer smiled, even though she was telling a bald-faced lie; her office door was actually shut most of the time.

  But he pulled back the thought because he’d seen something new in her face that he hadn’t seen before—kindness. It put him on alert and made him suspicious.

  “Oh, is he okay?” There’d been talk around the office that morning that a vicious summertime flu was making the rounds.

  Jennifer leaned against the work surface of Tyler’s cubicle and stared straight ahead as she said, “His mother passed away.”

  “Oh, no. That’s so sad. He was just telling me about her.”

  Jennifer eyed him. “He was? Did he say what was the matter? I couldn’t get any details out of his sister when she called to report him off.”

  Tyler knew enough not to share what he knew with her. “I don’t know. He just said she’d been sick, and he’d been taking care of her.” Tyler shook his head. “Poor guy.” He looked at his computer screen, the blue background with the white letters on it. The rectangular cursor blinked at where he’d left off in his report, as though tapping its foot impatiently. “Are we doing anything? Maybe sending flowers?”

  Jennifer stood up. “Oh, honey, that’s a sweet thought. But there’s no money in the budget. But you can certainly do so, if you’re inclined.” She thought for a moment and Tyler wondered if she realized how heartless she sounded. It was amazing how quickly she could shift from kindness to indifference. “I’ll stop by Walgreens at lunch and pick up a card that we can all sign.”

  “That’d be swell,” Tyler said, wanting to draw the words back in as quickly as he’d blurted them out, dripping with sarcasm as they were.

  Jennifer didn’t seem to notice. Without another word, she left him alone in his cubicle.

  Tyler felt more troubled about the loss than he thought he had a right to, given the limited time of his acquaintance with Emory. But when do our feelings ever follow a logical path?

  He promised himself he’d call a florist on his break at ten thirty. He was sure Jennifer would pass along Emory’s address. And with that latter thought, Tyler had an idea.

  *

  Tyler had never been in this part of Chicago before. He was a suburban boy and knew only the more popular areas of the city, frequented by suburbanites and tourists—Wrigleyville, Grant Park, the Loop.

  Now, he stood on Granville Avenue just after work. The L that had just dropped him off rumbled out of the station above his head. He looked around and saw a lively neighborhood. There were coffee shops, a couple bars (he’d heard of the Forge, a gay bar, but was always told to avoid it because it was “an old man’s bar”), a laundromat, some other small businesses. Toward the east, the buildings soared up to the sky—high-rises on Sheridan Road. To the west was the hustle and bustle of Broadway—more traffic, more restaurants and bars.

  He pulled the Post-it Jennifer had written Emory’s address on from his pocket. He lived in the block of Kenmore just north of Granville. A few steps to the east and around the corner, really.

  Tyler passed the Sovereign Hotel and mused that it looked more like an apartment building than a hotel.

  And then he was at Emory’s. He didn’t know why, but he expected Emory would live in a smaller building, perhaps even a two-flat or a three-flat that you see everywhere in the city.

  Emory’s building was an older high-rise, fashioned from weathered red brick. Tyler stood just outside the awning over the glass front doors and guessed the building must be at least twenty stories tall, maybe more. The views of the lake and the city from the top floors must be awesome, but Emory lived on the first floor, so what he saw would most likely be the street, parked cars, and the backs and sides of other apartment buildings.

  Tyler went into the lobby and located Emory’s name on the directory. He took a deep breath and buzzed.

  Emory’s voice, a bit garbled came through. “Yes? Who’s there?”

  “It’s Tyler, Emory.” Tyler shouted.

  “Who?”

  “Tyler Kay, your coworker.”

  The silence after that stretched on for so long that Tyler worried that Emory was ignoring him.

  But, at last, a jarring buzzer sounded, startling Tyler. He hurried to grab the door as he heard the lock unclick.

  He dashed through the lobby to the elevator at its rear. He pressed one, even though they were on the ground floor already, but the first floor was above that.

  The elevator opened onto a long, red-carpeted hallway with brass sconces on the wall at regular intervals. Tyler thought it might have looked nice at one time, but now, the subtly-striped wallpaper looked dated, in some places water stained. The light fixtures could use a cleaning and some needed replacement bulbs. The carpet was worn lighter in the middle where residents trod.

  The whole place smelled of cooking grease, cabbage, cigarette smoke, and God knew what else.

  It was hot.

  He was yanked out of his reverie as a door opened down the hallway. Emory’s head poked out. His hair was disheveled, and he was dressed in an old gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of faded jeans. Despite being the very essence of neatness at work, Emory actually looked better this way, younger, sexier. More normal.

  Tyler pushed the thoughts aside and smiled. He held up the bouquet of daisies he’d bought for far too much at a little florist’s shop on Michigan Avenue.

  “What are you doing here?” Emory asked.

  Tyler started toward him, letting the flowers clutched in his hand precede him. “I heard about your mom. I just wanted to stop by real quick to offer my condolences.”

  Emory eyed the flowers, then looked up at Tyler, almost as though he were confused about this small gesture, unused to kindness. He stepped out into the hallway and then pulled the door almost closed behind him. He reached out to take the bouquet. Holding them at his side, he thanked Tyler. “It was thoughtful of you to do this. You didn’t have to.”

  “I know I didn’t. I wanted to.”

  Silence crept in between them and seemed to be considering staying a long while. Tyler felt awkward and wondered if he should simply offer another few words of sympathy and then be on his way.

  And yet, there was something so lost and lonely in Emory’s features that Tyler felt compelled to do more. He knew it was bad manners, but he asked anyway. “Can I come in?”

 
; “Now’s not a good time,” Emory said.

  Tyler shrugged. “That’s cool. I just thought you might like a bit of company.”

  Emory said nothing in return. He simply crossed his arms and stared at Tyler, waiting.

  Tyler shrugged. “Well, I guess I should be on my way. Home. To Wilmette.” He smiled.

  Emory nodded.

  Tyler had wondered, on the train, if he should offer Emory a hug. Now, he realized a physical gesture wouldn’t be welcome. So, he turned and started back toward the elevator.

  Just when he was about to the doors, Emory called, “Wait! Where are my manners? Of course you can come in.”

  Tyler looked down the long hallway, feeling almost as though he were in a dream. Emory had opened the door widely and stood waiting, his hand on the doorknob.

  Tyler hurried back and followed Emory into chaos.

  First off, the apartment smelled really bad. A combination of smoke, rotting food, and some sickening sweet perfume that had probably been sprayed to mask the other odors hung over the place like a pall.

  Compared to the large home Tyler came from in Wilmette, the apartment Emory shared with his family seemed ludicrously small, almost unlivable. He could see into the kitchen, where dirty dishes spilled from the sink onto the counter beside it.

  The room they were in, the living room, was crowded with old, grandma-style furniture, all maple and chintz, that seemed too large. It made Tyler feel crowded, almost claustrophobic. A layer of dust on all the surfaces didn’t help matters much either.

  Tyler sneezed.

  Emory picked up a newspaper from the coffee table, which was already crowded with used cups and plates, and tucked it under his arm. He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about the mess.”

  “No, no. Don’t be sorry. You’re going through a lot. Would you like me to help you tidy up while I’m here?”

  “No!” Emory’s response was swift, almost panicked. He let loose a little titter and gestured toward the couch. “Have a seat. I could, uh, make some coffee or tea.”

  The temperature in the apartment had to be in the nineties. A hot beverage sounded revolting. “That’s okay.”