“I mean, my life was one big horror story after another. Seeing them unfold like that, I knew they’d happen, because the way I was, they made sense. Lincoln showed me every disgusting and pathetic thing that was going to happen to me those next eighteen years. Unbelievable. Eighteen more years of that! I’d be a living disaster area for as long as I’d already been alive till I finally got hold of myself and got it together. Great, huh? Lots to look forward to.” She had been speaking nonstop for minutes but paused now and smiled. “Your angel showed me the ghost of my Christmas Future and it was real, all right.
“Then he brought me back and said, ‘That’s it. That’s what your life is going to be like.’ I asked what I could do to stop or change it. Nothing. But there was one thing he could do if I wanted: he could make me older. He said when I was thirty-four my whole life would change and begin to be satisfying. He could skip me up there if I wanted, over those gruesome eighteen years, but with my whole history in my head, so I’d end up the same person. It’d just be like going over a bridge, and the water down below was the bad years.”
“How do you feel?”
“Better than ever, and it’s only been a few hours. The funny thing is, I went home and my parents didn’t see any difference.”
I knew she wanted to talk more about it, but I couldn’t. I needed to ask other questions. “What did Lincoln say at the airport? What did he tell you?”
“He made me promise not to tell. He also said not to tell you what I think of you and your wife.” She stopped, considered this, went on. “The only thing he asked me to do specifically was give you this.” She put her hand in her purse and pulled out a pistol. “He used it on you yesterday.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he thought you’d want to use it on yourself. I have to go now. I did what he asked.” Turning away, she walked down the dark street, some of her perfume still in the air.
“Wait! How could he save you if he was so upset? And why didn’t you stop him from killing himself?”
“Because we were friends and wanted the other to have what they wanted. Because of what you did, Lincoln wanted to die; that was his choice. He was my friend, Mr. Fischer. He’d do anything for me, even at the end. Too bad you didn’t know him.” She turned again and left. I had no desire to call or follow her. She meant nothing to me, and if her story was true, so what? Lincoln was dead. My fault. My dead angel.
I slid the gun into my jacket pocket and walked across the street to the house.
“Mr. Fischer?” The two Gillcrist boys came up and Bill pointed toward Little White. “Do you know her? Is that why you were talking to her? My mother told us we’re never to talk to anyone like her. She’s all old and dirty. But you did. Do you know her?”
Before unlocking the door, I rang the bell to alert whoever was inside. I hoped Lily wouldn’t be there, because I wanted to see things first and hopefully hear the details. Give me time to think it over before doing anything.
“Who’s there?”
“Mary? It’s me, Max.”
“I thought it was you. What happened to your face? Where have you been?”
“It doesn’t matter. Is Lily here?”
The house smelled different. Closing the door behind me, I tried to figure out what it was. Cooking? No. A new perfume? No. Many people. The place smelled of many people being in it all at once.
“No, she and Greer are over with Ib and Gus. The doctor gave her a sedative and it kept her pretty calm, but I wish you’d been here. She found him. He was hanging off the beam in your bedroom.”
“Was there a note?”
“Yes. It said, ‘This one’s for you, Lily. Thanks,’ and was signed: ‘Not Brendan Meier.’”
“Did the police see the note?”
“Yes. They took it with them. Max, what’s going on? What happened to you? Where did Lincoln go yesterday?”
“The police have the note? What did it say again?”
“’This one’s for you, Lily. Thanks.’ Signed: ‘Not Brendan Meier.’ Do you understand it? Does Lily?”
“You said she found the body? Did Greer see it?”
“Not as far as I know. Lily called me last night after you left and asked what was going on. I gave it to her very sketchily, and didn’t mention the gun. I said Lincoln had probably gotten into some trouble and you were trying to get him out. She asked me over to spend the night and I came, just in case. Today she was very disturbed because she hadn’t heard from either of you. I stuck around as long as I could, then took off for what I thought would only be a few hours. Greer went to school, Lily did her errands, and when she got back in the afternoon, Lincoln was… there. She found him when she walked into the bedroom.
“Max, do you know why he did it?”
She was my oldest friend, the person I trusted really more than anyone. “No. I don’t understand his note either. Brendan Meier? Who is that?”
“Maybe a friend of his? That’s another thing. The police went looking for his friends to question them. Elvis and Little White especially. They found Elvis, but he doesn’t know anything. Apparently he started crying when he heard Lincoln was dead.
“Another thing, Max. You’ve got to go down and identify the body. Lily wasn’t up to it and I don’t think she should. Before you do anything else, you’ve got to go down to the morgue and identify him.”
“All right. I’ll do it now.”
“I’d go for you, but they want—”
“I said all right, Mary. I’ll go now.”
She touched my shoulder, I pulled away. “Will you tell me what happened out there? Was it the gun? Did all this have to do with his gun?
“No. It had nothing to do with that. I want to look at the bedroom before I go. I want to see where it happened.”
“There’s nothing there. Nothing left. It’s just your bedroom again. Really, there’s nothing left. Go look, it’s just a nicely made bed, a dresser—”
“And a conveniently exposed beam? I want to see it. And I have to go into his room too. I just have to be in both rooms a while. Do you understand?”
She nodded and looked at me with pity. “Okay. Do you want me to take you…”
“To the morgue? Is that the word you want, Mary? No. I’ll go alone. Just tell me how to get there.”
We were standing close to each other. She reached over and embraced me. I held on as long as she did but didn’t give back much of a squeeze. We separated. There were tears in her eyes.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”
“I’m sure. Listen, thanks for what you’ve done. Thanks for being here last night, and today.”
“I’m so glad I was. I wish to God this hadn’t happened to you two.”
“I once read an article that said only one suicide in six leaves a note. The note rarely tells the survivors what they want to know. At least we have some idea, huh? Lily and I can go around for the rest of our lives knowing . . .”
“Max—”
“Just tell me how to get there.”
You think a place is going to rip you apart, even walking through the door will take all your resolve and whatever courage you have. Unlike other words, like “love” or “hate.” “morgue” has only one meaning. It is what it is—the place where bodies are brought for a last look. Funeral homes are not the same. If a body is at the morgue, something besides death went wrong, its last breath was suspicious. There it is not dressed in a suit and arranged tastefully, but cut open and examined by someone looking for clues. Unlike that other house of the dead, this is not a last resting place, but rather the last questioning place. The questioners find their answers, not in words, but on the skin and under it.
I thought I would not be able to stand the morgue, but walking through the last door before coming to Lincoln’s body, I choked, trying to suppress a big old-fashioned ha-ha! laugh. The doctor leading me to the room looked over sympathetically.