"Mousie," I said. "Not that it matters to you, but I'm sorry. Your mother wasn't able to take care of you anymore. Even when she could, you had a terrible life. You never got anything but the short end of the stick. I hope you can forgive me. If you happen to come around again, things almost have to be better, but if you want my advice, stay where you are."
I pitched the shovel into the weeds and came back into the house. Clark called 911. We went into the hallway. Ten minutes later, two baby cops piled out of a squad car and jogged to the door. I said that I had found the deceased, Mrs. Joy Crothers, my mother's aunt. The family had been worried because no one had seen her in two days.
My Undo Clark and I had let ourselves in. Mr. Crothers was in an advanced stage of Alzheimer's disease, and when we discovered his wife's body, we telephoned the nursing home to which he had been accepted and had him removed there. “It looks to me like she had a heart attack while bringing lunch up to her husband."
On the way upstairs, one of the cops finally mentioned the smell. "Mr. Crothers lost control of his bodily functions years ago," I said. "And my aunt was an old woman. She didn't have the strength to clean him properly."
"No offense, sir, but this smells worse than that," one of the cops said.
In the lead, Clark intoned, "You fellows may be ignorant of what can happen to the human body when it is left to its own devices. Be grateful you still have your health."
"Why did she put him in the attic?"
“I guess she thought he'd be safe there," I said. "She had a special bed made for him. You'll see."
Clark opened the door, and we trooped in. The cops walked around the body and wrote in their notebooks.
"She died in the commission of an act of human kindness," Clark said. "That was her way."
"Chicken noodle soup," said one of the cops. "This isn't any homicide, but we'll have to wait for the M.E. to make it official. Is that the bed you were talking about, sir?"
"She put up the plywood to keep him in," I said.
They stared down into Mousie's crib and looked at Clark. He saw an occasion to which he did not doubt his ability to rise.
"The woman stayed by his side night and day, ministering to his needs as best she could. The tragedy is, the day before yesterday we found a placement for Clarence at Mount Baldwin. I believe the shock of his imminent departure was a factor in Joy's demise. Clarence was her life. Boys, always remember to display affection and regard for your wives. A woman needs that kind of thing."
“If I come down with Alzheimer's, I hope my wife won't dump me into a plywood crib," said one of the cops.
"An act of the purest tenderness and love," Clark said. "You may get an idea of the man's stature when you hear that it was Mrs. Rachel Milton who arranged for his placement at Mount Baldwin."
The cops glanced at each other. "Let's wait downstairs," one said.
•Clark excused himself to tell his wife what had happened. They came out onto their porch before the medical examiner drove up in front of Joy's house, and they crossed the street in time to hurry up the walk behind him. It was the same weary man with mushroom-colored skin who had released Toby Kraft's body to the police. I was standing outside, and the two cops loomed in the doorway. Nettie caught up to the medical examiner and squared off in front of him. She looked like a mountain with a reputation for rockslides. "Have you come to examine my sister's body?"
"That's my job," he said.
“I trust that you will conduct your business in a respectful manner and allow us to deal with my sister's departure as she would have wished."
"Mrs. Rutledge, you will probably get what you want. I'm here to pronounce your sister dead and rule out the possibility of foul play. But to do that, I have to go into the house."
"Am I in your way?" Nettie asked.
One of the cops told the M.E. that the body was upstairs. He turned to Nettie. "How do you account for the odor in this house?"
"Clarence, mainly," she said. "Once his mind faded, his personal hygiene was a matter my poor sister addressed as best she could. The rest of it comes from the refuse my sister accumulated in her kitchen, which is in a sorry state."
"That's not a garbage smell. Did your sister have problems with groundwater in her basement?"
"Doctor," Nettie said, "these two handsome young officers are waiting to assist you."
The M.E. stepped backward, nearly bumped into me, and murmured an apology. The smirking cops led him up the stairs.
Nettie sidled up to me. "You did the right thing, son."
“I hope so."
"My sister's child claimed her energies from the moment the poor thing first drew breath. Joy sends you blessings for giving Mousie a decent burial. I hope you'll be coming back to see us on a regular basis."
"Aunt Nettie," I said, "don't pay too much attention to anything you read about me in the papers. The stories will die down when Stewart Hatch goes on trial."
Footsteps descended, and the M.E. came toward us. Nettie took my arm and lifted her chin to stare him down. "Later today, Mrs.
Rutledge, I will make out the death certificate, naming heart attack as cause of death. You are free to make any arrangements you wish."
"Thank you," Nettie said, glacially.
"Was Mr. Crothers an unusually small man? A 'little person'?"
"Not at the height of his powers," Nettie magnificently said. “Illness robbed Clarence of his physical stature ina manner cruel to behold."
The M.E. dodged around her and left the house. Nettie directed her commanding gaze upon the policemen. "You young men have been a great help to us in our time of sorrow. It is a comfort to me that gentlemen like yourselves have devoted your lives to public service."
A minute later, one of them was on the phone to Mr. Spaulding while the other stood guard at the door.
"Should I stick around for another day or two?" I asked.
“I'm thankful you could spend so much time with us," she said. "And you rescued our pictures! That takes a great weight off my mind, Neddie. Make your travel arrangements, and be sure to keep in touch."
"Take care," Clark said. "There's not but a few of us left, now Mousie's in his grave."
•134
•The sky had disappeared above Cherry Street. A wet, silvery mist coated my windshield. I sent the wipers back and forth and cleared two transparent semicircles onto a street visible enough for driving.
Back in my room, I charged a seat on a 6:00p.m. flight from St. Louis to New York, giving me more than enough time to lose my way and find it again. After that, I called the rental agency to say that I would be returning their car to the airport in St. Louis with a damaged rear end. A supervisor with the manners of a prison guard put me on hold while he wrangled with the office in St. Louis, then came back on the line and said, "You'll get away with it this time, Mr. Dunstan. When you drop off the keys, leave the details of the accident, the name, address, and telephone number of the other party and the name of his or her insurance carrier."
"You can get that information from Stewart Hatch," I said, "He got drunk and backed his Mercedes into the rear end of your Taurus."